A Dish Served Cold
by The Real Muse
Summary: Everyone assumed Walter Peck was either an ineffectual bureaucrat or a clown. No one suspected the depths of his power -- or his evil. Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

A Dish Served Cold  
  
By: CindyR  
  
(Revenge is a dish best served cold. -- old proverb)  
  
The hush was deep, ponderous, a quality a very large building possesses only when totally devoid of human life. Nothing stirred, no sound to mar the absolute perfection of silence. Overhead, florescent bulbs burned unceasingly, shedding their harsh illumination on one of the greatest collections of object d'art the world had ever seen -- culture and history, paintings and sculpture, all blending into that harmonious microcosm New Yorkers call The Metropolitan Museum of Art.  
  
"Wow, will you look at this stuff!" Peter Venkman picked his way cautiously through a row of artifacts which stood as tall as he. He paused to stare at a particularly ugly statue, then bent to read its identifying tag. "'Example of Ammonite god ... human sacrifices ... children fire....' Yuck!" He straightened and stepped back to give himself a better view of the hideous representation. "Those dudes were really hard-core serious about this sacrifice thing, weren't they, Winston?" he asked his companion, a muscular black man dressed in light blue.  
  
"Sure were," the other replied, rechecking the detection device he carried. "That would be a statue of Molech, their chief god. Nasty dude; used to eat little babies for breakfast. Hmmm, definite presence; can't pinpoint it yet."  
  
"Terrific." Peter wrinkled his nose. "Maybe our spook is one of those old Ammonites. They must have carried a load of bad karma when they went."  
  
"Maybe." Winston carefully scanned the high ceiling, his particle thrower ready. "Remember, Pete, keep your stream as short as possible. We damage any of these exhibits and our butts are hung out to dry."  
  
"Not to worry, m'man." Venkman patted his own weapon and resumed his careful search of the antiquities section. "The only gooper Egon could pick up on was one paltry little Class 2, and you know how harmless they are. We may end up a little sticky, but that's about it." A low breep came from the direction of his belt; he unhooked the communicator, thumbing it open in the same motion. "WGST radio, may I take your request, please?"  
  
"Knock it off, Peter." The heavy bass rumbled through the airwaves almost distortion free despite the tiny size of the radio. "Ray and I have reached the Modern Wonders exhibit. That puts us approximately twenty yards to the north of your present position. We'll continue to work our way towards you. Keep me advised if you register any fluctuation on your auxiliary PKE meter. It could well signify a transitional visitation."  
  
"Yo," Peter acknowledged, restoring the radio to his belt. "Professor Cool wants us to holler if ghosties go bye-bye," he told Winston Zeddemore by way of translation.  
  
"Solid." Winston knelt to check under the sarcophagus of some ancient king, then raised up onto his toes to peer over the rim of a giant urn. It was dark inside and looked to be half filled with water, in which he saw reflected a dark-skinned figure with gleaming white teeth. Mildly embarrassed at his involuntary start, Winston smiled nervously at the figure and the figure smiled back. It took several seconds for Winston to realize that the reflection that was smiling at him was not his own.  
  
"YEE-0WW!" He leaped backwards just as a nebulous mass detached itself from the interior of the urn and hurtled skyward, showering Winston with a sour, dark substance in passing. "Oh, yuck," the Ghostbuster groaned, wiping his face on his sleeve. "Gooper got me!" He sighted along his barrel, triggering it while bellowing, "PETER!"  
  
"Yo, cuz." Venkman appeared at the unnerved black's shoulder, causing the man's first shot to go wild. It singed its way across the ceiling, transforming a ladies room sign into a mess of sparking wires and broken glass. "Ooops."  
  
Winston depowered instantly. "Don't do that!" he told the widely grinning psychologist. "I could have had a heart attack or something!"  
  
"Little jumpy today, are we?" Peter turned his attention to the dark shape swooping towards the exit, his wide grin not altering an iota. "Thar she blows!" He tracked his prey, calculating its trajectory with a marksman's eye. Automatically allowing it several feet lead, he opened up with his shortened proton stream, catching the figure like a fly in a web. "Easiest money we've made all week," he chortled, nodding an order at his companion. "Toss that trap, and ...." He broke off in open-mouthed astonishment as the 'paltry little Class 2' began to move. The proton gun leaped in Peter's hands as feedback warred with the originating energy source. Peter wrestled with his thrower, attempting to keep the stream centered on the struggling entity, almost losing control when a particle wave reversed back into his barrel. With a triumphant whoop, the entity swirled out of the field and disappeared through the wall.  
  
"I don't believe it!" Peter turned off his weapon, staring at it with unfeigned surprise. "Even a shortened stream can hold a Class 2 indefinitely. Did you manage to get a reading?"  
  
Winston pointed his meter to the room's four corners, studying the results intently. "Class 2," he confirmed. "Is there something wrong with your pack?" He ran an experienced eye over Venkman's equipment, but all dials and tell-tales were well into the safe zones. "Power levels are fine."  
  
"So's my thrower." Flipping the rifle-shaped weapon over, Peter checked his connections. "I'd better have Ray look it over when we get back to the firehouse." He pulled a radio from his uniform pocket, clicking it on while scanning the walls and ceiling against a possible attack. "Egon? Ray?"  
  
"Spengler here," came the immediate response. "Have you located the entity yet?"  
  
"Well, sort of." Peter exchanged a rueful look with his partner. "I had it, but it kind of got away."  
  
The resonant bass roughened, coming from a slight distance as though its owner had drawn back to stare at the communication device in disbelief. "What do you mean 'kind of'?" Egon demanded.  
  
Resuming their search, the two Ghostbusters wandered shoulder-to-shoulder down a side aisle; at the impatient tone, they exchanged a look, then Peter cleared his throat. "I had our paycheck ... I mean, the nether-entity snared, but it broke out of my stream and disappeared." A low murmur sounded through the radio. "What was that?" Peter asked, raising his voice a bit.  
  
"Ray asked what your settings were," Egon translated.  
  
"Oh." Again bringing his weapon up to eye level, Peter tossed a lock of rich brown hair off his forehead and squinted at the tell-tales, which glowed faintly in the dim light. "Stream at twelve feet, power levels at 24%, ionization full positive."  
  
"It is impossible for a Class 2 to overcome even a 24% power setting," Egon pointed out, the radio masking not at all his disbelief.  
  
Green eyes narrowed at the implied affront. "If it was a Class 2."  
  
Disbelief metamorphosed into annoyance. "Of course it was a Class 2," the absent physicist rumbled, offended in return. "I took the initial readings personally."  
  
"Guess that settles that," Winston commented, winking.  
  
Attention divided between a wet-looking stain on the wall and the airwave discussion, Peter ignored his companion completely. "Look, Spengs, I hit the darned thing dead center, you should pardon the expression. After four years, I know enough to do that."  
  
Egon Spengler must have caught the frosty note in the psychologist's voice, because his tone moderated at once. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...." He broke off abruptly. In the background, the excited yell of their fourth member combined with the high whine of a proton rifle being discharged, both clearly audible even without the transmitter. "We're two rooms straight ahead," Egon rapped hurriedly. "Join us." The radio went dead.  
  
"You heard the man -- let's go!" Peter adjusted a dial, increasing the power output of his pack, then imitated Winston's lope down the center aisle. "Let's hope they can keep the dude from splitting before we get there."  
  
The sounds of combat echoed eerily throughout the great halls, the crackle of energy mixing with moans and wails guaranteed to chill the most inured warrior. Peter and Winston burst through the double doors of the Modern Wonders exhibit and stopped short, eyes wide at the scene of carnage which awaited them. Dark burns scored the walls in a dozen places, and the floor was littered with broken crockery of every description and color. In the exact center of the devastation, taupe colored uniform and auburn hair powdered white by the plaster, Ray Stantz struggled to maintain a hold on his particle thrower. It bucked wildly as had Peter's, but he held on, his youthful face creased with determination.  
  
Off to the left, Egon fumbled a trap from his belt webbing, large hands cradling the box-shaped device only seconds before he heaved it under the writhing creature held in Ray's stream. "Hold him!" he called, unholstering his own thrower in unison with Winston and Peter.  
  
"I-I can't--" Stantz never finished. The heavy rifle twisted suddenly, tearing itself from his sweaty grip to catch him a solid thump in the solar plexus. He sat down hard, gasping for breath. Without an operator, the proton weapon sputtered and died.  
  
Freed of its energy prison, the black entity soared upwards picking up speed. At the last minute, it turned and swooped, descending on a direct course for Peter Venkman's head. Unable to draw a bead on the rapidly moving target, Venkman raised one arm to protect his face from the expected sliming. Past experience had taught him that so amorphous a being as a Class 2 carried very little kinetic energy, but they usually managed to maintain sufficient substantiality to coat any target with enough ectoplasm to swim in.  
  
Face twisted in a disgusted grimace, the psychologist dodged, managing to avoid the main mass by scant inches. He might have succeeded entirely had not the entity extended an arm-like appendage at the last minute. Expecting the barely tangible, Peter Venkman was unprepared for the sharp crack that caught him against the head and threw him several feet down the aisle. He hit the floor, suddenly losing all interest in the proceedings.  
  
Reveling in its victory, the entity rose, a dark shadow against the white walls. It wailed, drawing a bead on its next victim and dove once more. Fortunately, Winston had seen what had happened to his colleagues and was prepared. His proton pack hummed full strength, the stream catching the far- too-substantial mass precisely dead center. Egon's stream joined the fray, entrapping the angry shade once more. It howled, struggling against the immobilizing radiation like a wild thing, but the increased power was too much for it to escape.  
  
Still seated where he'd fallen, Ray watched the battle with dazed interest. Both Egon and Winston were hard pressed to maintain control of their captive; neither dared to remove even one hand from their throwers to toss a ghost trap.  
  
"Ray!" Spengler yelled, recapturing a ghostly hand as the creature pulled loose.  
  
Stantz rubbed his stomach muscles, panting slightly in an attempt to draw in enough oxygen to function. It took two tries before he could answer the summons. "I'm here."  
  
"I think Peter's unconscious." Egon was barely audible over the screaming of the packs. "We need you to get the trap positioned."  
  
With a pained expression, Stantz forced himself to his knees and made his way to the ghost trap Egon had been forced to drop earlier. Being very careful so as to remain clear of the crackling energy streams, he slithered on belly and toes until he could position the trap under the Class 2, shoving it the last few feet with the tips of his fingers. Retreating, he leaned on the activator, opening the doors and bathing his target in purest radiation. With a loud yell, the nether-creature vanished.  
  
"That was far more difficult than I'd initially estimated," Egon remarked, shutting off his thrower. He bent to collect the trap; a blinking red light indicated its "full" status and, satisfied, he hooked it onto his belt. "We should not have had that much trouble with a Class 2."  
  
"Tell him, not me," Winston groused, staring at the remains of a three thousand year old mosaic with dismay. "Boy, are we gonna be in dutch when the curator sees this mess."  
  
"No problem. I'm sure our insurance will cover the damage. Raymond?" Egon offered the still-sitting Stantz a hand up, which the engineer summarily refused with a shake.  
  
"No, thanks." He rubbed his stomach again, his gently rounded features taking on a greenish cast. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to just sit here a minute. I'm afraid I might ... uh...." There was no need for him to finish; one look at his desperate expression told them more than enough of what he might do if he stood up too quickly.  
  
Egon nodded and knelt instead by Peter's still form, Winston at his side. The psychologist lay where he'd fallen, flat on his back, his arms asprawl. Egon shook him gently. "Peter?"  
  
Venkman moaned then opened his eyes to peer up at his companions blearily. "Egon?"  
  
"Yes, Peter?" replied that worthy, pulling out some paper.  
  
"Spud gone?"  
  
"Yes, Peter."  
  
"Job over?"  
  
"Yes, Peter."  
  
"Egon?"  
  
"Yes, Peter?"  
  
"Can we go home now?"  
  
"Yes, Peter," Egon agreed, beginning to figure out the bill.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

When the guys were out on a call, the old firehouse took on a depressingly empty air, which Janine usually sought to fill with music. Eclectic in taste, the hip New Yorker would work her way around the dial, occasionally tapping her toes to the accompaniment of New Orleans jazz, other times be- bopping to the sounds of the '50's. Today, she was feeling energetic and New Pig suited her mood exactly. She perched on her chair, snapping her fingers to the strains of a tortured guitar while daydreaming of a certain blond scientist of her acquaintance.  
  
Thus occupied, Janine nearly missed the jangle of the phone. Turning the radio down, she stuffed her gum into her jaw and cradled the instrument against her ear. "Ghostbusters. Two for one sale, this week only.... Oh, hi, Monica. ... Nah, it's awful quiet today. ... Egon? Ha! ... Sure, I'd be glad to meet your brother tonight. He's the podiatrist, right? Seven o'clock is fine. See you then."  
  
She hung up, then pulled out a small mirror and began to examine her heart- shaped face critically. "Hmmm, if I'm going out tonight, this make-up is going to have to go. Blue never does green eyes justice, and this lipstick!" She shook her head. "No way. I want to look good when Egon 'accidentally' finds out that I'm going to the movies with someone else." Pleased with the mental image of his impending jealous rage, she gathered up her purse and retired to the bathroom on the second floor to make some repairs to her face.  
  
The dark suited figure watched her go with relief. It had been patiently waiting for nearly an hour for the woman to leave her desk -- an hour during which the four male members of the team might have returned at any time. The figure stepped from its concealing corner to be revealed as a man, tall and well built, with a head full of dark blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache of that same shade. He listened at the foot of the steps, waiting until the bathroom door snicked shut before following the woman up.  
  
He gained the second floor living quarters without incident, placing his expensive oxfords carefully so as to occasion no tell-tale creak which would alert Janine to his presence. His target was the kitchen, located just off the main staircase and well away from the occupied bathroom.  
  
Flat blue eyes scanned the facilities briefly, finally settling on the innocent looking salt shaker on the counter. "Just what I need," the man muttered, removing the lid and adding a white power to the contents. He replaced the shaker lid and, for good measure, doctored the sugar bowl as well. Satisfied, he made his way out, as silent as he came.  
  
When Janine returned to her desk some fifteen minutes later, there was no sign that the firehouse had ever been visited at all. Yawning, she turned back on her radio and pulled out a nail file. Another typical, boring day at Ghostbusters Central.  
  
***  
  
"But I'm telling you," Egon repeated for the seventh time over the dinner table that night, "a Class 2 is not that powerful!" He waved a forkful of potatoes under Peter's nose, oblivious to the other's pained wince. "A Class 2 is...."  
  
"I know, already!" Venkman brushed the fork aside, then groaned, pressing two fingers to his temples. "I'd kill for another Anacin."  
  
"You've already had four," Winston pointed out, chewing steadily. "Ray, you did a great job on this chicken! Yo' momma taught you how to cook like this?"  
  
Ray nodded absently, fine lips forming a smile around a sip of cherry soda. "Sort of. She always kept cookbooks around -- said she didn't want her kids living on pizza and tuna fish after she was gone."  
  
"She's got my thanks," Zeddemore beamed, hacking off another slice of bird and brandishing it approvingly. "Looks like we got enough leftovers for a couple of days, too. Pass the salt, please."  
  
Roused from a semi-comatose state, Peter complied grumpily. "Man, Winston, I've never seen anyone use that much salt on their food. Where were you raised, anyway. The Dead Sea?" He shook his head then groaned again, realizing his mistake in moving at all. "Ouch."  
  
"Pass the salt this way, please?" Ray requested with a hint of mischief.  
  
Six-feet, three inches provided an imposing height even when the man was seated, this made even more so by the intricate curl of blond hair that crowned his head. Thus a commanding presence, Egon Spengler watched the interplay stoically, like a parent with unruly children. He waited until his comrades had seasoned their food to satisfaction, pushed his red framed glasses higher on his nose, and picked up on his discussion as though he'd not been interrupted at all. "I've checked and rechecked this meter; it's functioning perfectly, which leaves us with the question of how a Class 2 could possess enough power to challenge even a low energy proton stream."  
  
Directly across the table, Ray chewed thoughtfully, amber colored eyes growing distant. "You know, I've been thinking about that, and I'm not so sure the entity was actually more powerful."  
  
"You think there's something wrong with our packs?" Winston asked, darting to fetch the coffee pot from the kitchen counter.  
  
"Not at all. I checked those packs myself before we left the firehouse and after we came back. They're in perfect working order." The youngest Ghostbuster pushed aside the empty soda glass and lifted his cup for Winston to fill it, then reached for the sugar bowl. "All of our PKE readings revealed a common Class 2 uni-migrator. According to all our research, it should have never been able to free itself from even a low power stream."  
  
"Or split my skull," Peter grumbled, dropping his face into his hands. "Coffee, please, Winston?"  
  
"Right. It wasn't actually more powerful...." Stantz paused in the act of adding his third teaspoon of sugar to his coffee, his eyes losing that far- away look he shared with Egon when their minds were occupied with some new problem. He set down the sugar bowl and stared at Venkman with a worried frown. "Are you really all right, Peter? The hospital's only a few miles away, and...."  
  
"I'm fine." Venkman replied testily. He raised his head to shoot his younger colleague a brief smile. "Other than having the Yancy Street gang rumbling in my head, I'm just terrific."  
  
Ray made to say something else, then changed his mind when Egon swatted him on the arm. "It wasn't actually more powerful...." the physicist prodded impatiently.  
  
"Oh, right. I don't think it was so much more powerful as it was more substantial." He gestured toward Peter with his fork. "That ghost didn't burn Peter or shock him electrically."  
  
"Hope you weren't too disappointed," Venkman interjected from the security of his fingers.  
  
"It struck him. Physically," Stantz finished. He tasted his coffee, wrinkled his almost-snub nose and adding more sugar.  
  
Egon knit his brows, deep in thought. "That would explain why our weapons had less effect then usual. The proton streams are designed to disrupt the magno-ionization range in which each paranormal entity operates. Substantiality would tend to immunize -- for want of a better word -- said entity against submolecular disruption." He paused. "There's only one thing wrong with that theory."  
  
"I know." Ray stirred his potatoes until they resembled the consistency of warm ectoplasm then pushed them away with a sigh. "Something like that happening implies that natural laws are being distorted on a possibly cosmic scale."  
  
"But what could accomplish something like that?" Winston asked in a hushed voice. "Besides God, that is."  
  
"Nothing, Winston," Egon replied slowly. "Nothing that we know about ... yet."  
  
***  
  
"Oh, Peter, I want you -- I want you now!" She stretched out full length on the bed, golden mane playing about her face like a halo. "I'm yours, Peter," she purred, moistening full lips with the tip of her tongue. "Take me."  
  
Peter stared down at the feminine perfection awaiting his pleasure, still not completely believing his good fortune. "Kim," he whispered breathlessly, bending to stroke one silken thigh. "Kim...."  
  
"Peter...."  
  
"Peter, wake up."  
  
Venkman came to with a start, blinking when Kim Basinger's luscious curves wavered once and resolved into the ascetic and unlovely features of Egon Spengler. "Aw, geez, Egon," he groaned, sitting up. "You an' me, man, we're going to have to have a long talk about your timing."  
  
"My timing?" Egon padded back to his own bed, and sat down, rummaging around his nightstand until he located his glasses. With a sigh, he perched them onto the bridge of his nose and looked around. "Do you realize what time it is, Peter?"  
  
"Too blasted early by half," Venkman grumbled, catching a glimpse of the clock. Louder, "What's up?"  
  
"We have a call -- three, actually." Egon ran a hand through his hair; the blond locks immediately sprang upright in all directions, looking as though they were attempting to escape entirely. "Funny they should all come in at the same time."  
  
"Hilarious."  
  
"Since we're scheduled for pack maintenance over the next forty-eight hours, Ray suggested we split up and handle all three cases this morning," the tall physicist remarked, his tone hinting acute disagreement. "As the first is a case of possession...."  
  
"Ix-nay on that." Peter swung his feet to the floor and stood, stretching hugely. "After the trouble we had with the Class 2 yesterday, I think we should stick together for awhile. Take the possession case and schedule the rest for later on in the week." He looked around, noting the two unoccupied beds with a noticeable lack of surprise. "Ray and Winston are up already?"  
  
"Hours ago."  
  
"Figures." Venkman cocked his head, green eyes sparkling with amusement as they trailed to his friend's bony knees visible under the white nightshirt. "You realize you took me away from Kim Basinger to go chase some spook we could have handled this afternoon? Couldn't you have waited twenty minutes or so?"  
  
"First things first," Spengler replied virtuously.  
  
Peter regarded him with something akin to horror. "We've gotta have a long talk about your priorities, Spengs, baby."  
  
"Right after we have one on my timing."  
  
Peter narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but the physicist merely stared back, expression innocently blank. Peter gave up. "Dibbs on the shower," he called, strolling off.  
  
Spengler waited until the younger man had disappeared through the door before allowing his lips to twitch into a smug smile. "Sucker," he chuckled, reaching for his pants.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Peter's off-hand comment, this wasn't precisely an everyday type call for the Ghostbusters. They routinely dealt with cases of extra- terrestrial manipulation of inanimates, but possessed people were not something they handled often. Their equipment was designed for more sturdy targets than the frail human body; thus, it was with no little trepidation that the four pulled up to the warehouse/manufacturing complex noted on the work order, and piled out of the car.  
  
Stantz read the large sign affixed prominently to the building's wall; his pleasant, youthful features showed less enthusiasm for the bust than usual, and he scrubbed vaguely at his eyes when he thought no one was looking. "Standard American," he murmered aloud. "I wonder what they do here?"  
  
The pockets of his blue uniform bulged with notes and gadgets; Egon Spengler chose one seemingly at random and extracted a tidy packet of papers. "According to the spokeswoman, Mrs. Santiago, they manufacture ... er... bathroom fixtures," he replied, checking the topmost sheet with satisfaction. "Toilets, sinks...."  
  
"We know what bathroom fixtures are," Winston snapped, unloading his proton pack from the wagon. "What I don't know is why we're here at all. We ain't got the equipment to handle a possession. Why didn't you tell this Santiago chick to call a priest or something?"  
  
"In the first place," Egon responded with great dignity, "I didn't talk to Mrs. Santiago -- Janine did. Secondly, you know very well that paranormal control by an extra-dimensional entity will not be affected by ritual or religious trappings. We're dealing in the realms of science..." He sniffed. "...not myth."  
  
"Besides, they're paying us," Peter added practically. "You may be on salary, Winston, but we're getting a hefty service fee just for showing up. A couple more of these and we might even make the mortgage this month."  
  
Zeddemore's dark features creased. "You---"  
  
"Will you two knock it off?" Egon's gruff voice forestalled the retort. "You've both been bickering all morning."  
  
"Yeah. We've got work to do." Ray shrugged into his own proton pack, snapping it securely around his waist. "We're going to have to work together on this one, guys. We're a team."  
  
Peter stuck out his tongue. "Thank you, Tommy LaSorda."  
  
Tossing his auburn head at the acid rebuke, Ray led the way into the modern office section of the plant. They were greeted at the door by a plump, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as the president of the firm, Delorus Santiago.  
  
"I'm so glad you're here," she said, hustling them past a bevy of curious secretaries and clerks. "I just didn't know who else to call. Ramon...."  
  
"Ramon?" Peter winked at a particularly curvaceous clerk-typist, who smiled fetchingly back, fluffing her hair with one hand. "I've got to wander through this office again on the way out," he decided sotto voce. Louder, "Ramon is the name of the ... er ... possessee, right?"  
  
"Yes. Ramon Cerrito" The woman wrung her hands agitatedly, her light accent intensifying. "He's been acting a little odd for weeks now, but we didn't know.... I mean, we never suspected...."  
  
"Take your time, Delorus." Peter spoke soothingly, flashing the disturbed woman his brightest megawatt smile. He placed a hand under her elbow and ushered her forward until they were even with the rest. "Just take it from the top, and tell us what happened."  
  
Ray Stantz started when Egon brushed him out of the way to assume the lead. The Ghostbusters engineering specialist narrowed his eyes but made no remark; simply fell into line, watching closely when the big blond stopped before a heavy firedoor and pulled out his meter. Spengler touched a button and the folded arms attached to its forward edge stirred weakly. "Hmmm, P.K.E. readings are higher than normal, but not excessively so." He touched a green dial, turning it to right and left, but the indicator needle barely twitched. Spengler scowled and inclined toward the company's president. "What evidence disposed you to infer that this Ramon is being unnaturally controlled? Perhaps the police would have been a better choice instead of paranormal eliminators."  
  
Mrs. Santiago, who had been visibly relaxing under Peter's sensual charm, stiffened again. "We... didn't want the police here," she said cautiously.  
  
"Because...?" Venkman prodded, still smiling despite the new suspicion that darkened his eyes to the color of the sea.  
  
Nervously wiping her hands on her silk suit, the woman glanced from one man to the other, mouth working on the answer. "Because ... most of my employees are from the old cultures and.... Oh, see for yourselves." She tugged open the firedoors and led the way into a warehouse filled from floor to ceiling with cartons, stacked bathtubs, toilets and other articles normally associated with indoor plumbing. Several crates had been haphazardly strewn about near the doorway, and a bathtub lay on its side across the main aisle. Here and there, piles of broken porcelain and dented metal marked the remains of fixtures abnormally used.  
  
"Some of these products weigh in at over 200 pounds," Santiago explained, stepping daintily over a chunk of steel as large around as her head. "Ramon threw these -- including that cast iron bathtub. Actually picked them up and threw them!"  
  
"But that's not...." Winston began.  
  
"Ramon weighs no more than 120 pounds himself." She wrung her hands again. "And...and he's only...only fifteen years old!"  
  
Light dawned. "So that's why you didn't want to call in the police," Winston accused, giving the distressed woman a fish eye. "I bet he doesn't have a green card, either."  
  
No reply.  
  
"Uh-huh." Egon drew his particle thrower and checked the controls, making sure they were set as low as possible. "I suggest you evacuate the building, madam. Considering the quantity of packing materials in the vicinity, there exists a finite probability for induced combustion."  
  
"He means we could accidentally start a fire," Ray translated automatically, when the woman only returned a blank stare.  
  
"I'll get my office personnel out; this section is already empty because of Ramon." She turned, starting away as if glad for the escape, stopping when Venkman called her name.  
  
"Call the police first. I want an officer on site as son as possible." He checked his own thrower but, unlike Egon, reracked it immediately. "There's still a chance this is not a case of possession," he explained at his companions' puzzled looks, "and I'm not about to fry some teenager over a mistake."  
  
Egon drew himself stiffly erect, sky blue eyes frosty. "Are you implying I would?"  
  
"Frankly, Spengs, baby, what you would or wouldn't do has been a mystery to me for years." Venkman jerked his head towards the woman, who was gaping at the exchange. "Call the cops. Now."  
  
"Oh, yes -- yes, of course." Without a backward glance, she turned and fled.  
  
"Fire hazard. Terrific." Winston adjusted his own thrower, imitating Egon's low-power settings exactly. "Come on -- let's validate the dude, fry the spook and get out of here. It's getting on time for lunch."  
  
"I am so sorry if we're keeping you from your meal." Peter's acid retort cut off short at a look from Egon, quelling the incipient argument before it could start. "All right, let's just do it."  
  
Ray, who had been silent through most of the morning, shot his colleagues a reproachful look, his soft voice carrying a bite not normally associated with the amiable engineer. "Try not to forget, that's still a man there. If you 'fry' the ghost, you'll kill the man -- the boy -- too."  
  
"So what do you suggest?" Peter demanded, changing sides just to be perverse. "You want I should pscho-analyze him clean? Sorry, Tex, but I left my couch in my other pants."  
  
"But we really should have a plan," the younger man persisted, halting the group to the accompaniment of at least two groans.  
  
Sharp green eyes darting from aisle to aisle, Peter stepped around the small knot of men, advancing two more paces before coming to a halt. "Before we plan anything, I want to see a psi reading on the victim. Let's see what we're dealing with first."  
  
Winston's wide nose flared as though smelling something distasteful. "That goes without saying," he replied coolly, also retreating from his comrades as though they were the offensive odor. "If that's the best you have to offer...."  
  
"Perhaps I can do better." The deep bass grew even more resonant as Egon drew himself up to his full height. He tipped his head until he was staring haughtily down at his shorter colleagues, who were watching him with vague animosity. "If we can contain the host..."  
  
"Provided that's what he is," the brown haired psychologist interjected rudely.  
  
"...in a low-level pyramid configuration attuned to the abnormal psychic wave fluctuations, the atmospheric hyper-ionization may induce spontaneous disengagement."  
  
"You sound like a dictionary," Peter complained, for once neglecting the game of making Ray reiterate the physicist's pedantic speech. He unclipped his thrower, hefting it easily in one hand. "Okay, we'll have to stay close on this one. We'll need at least three of us for a pyramid configuration."  
  
"Thank you, Tommy LaSorda," Winston mimicked, examining the distant ceiling for slime. "And don't think I'm gonna be solo man out on this one, either."  
  
The psychologist glowered, but before he could formulate a suitably crushing reply, a figure appeared atop one of the myriad piles of boxes lining the aisles; Ramon Cerrito, a slightly built Latino in coveralls, regarded the four men boldly, black eyes glassy. "I don't suppose you want to make this easy on us?" Peter called plaintively, waggling his fingers in greeting.  
  
Obviously not. With an inarticulate yell, the newcomer kicked out, unbalancing the heavy crates on which he stood, sending them crashing down onto the scrambling Ghostbusters.  
  
"Look out!" Winston shouted, clearing the end of the cascade with a bound. Egon was right behind him but too slow to escape completely unscathed; he leaped gracelessly over the first tumbling box only to be bowled over by the second. It caught him a glancing blow, knocking him sideways into Winston and sending both men crashing to the floor, fortunately out of the way of the rest of the pile. They landed relatively unhurt if winded, the PKE meter skidding some meters beyond.  
  
Several feet away, Peter and Ray were having problems of their own. Sandwiched between the aisles and too far from either end of the man-made avalanche to escape, they could do little more than stare as certain doom tumbled towards them. Peter took one involuntary step backwards, stumbling when he found himself in a miniature cul de sac formed by the junction of two machines. Without hesitation he reached out, grabbed Stantz by the collar and yanked him to safety only an instant before the younger man would have been squashed flat by a half-ton of massed urinals.  
  
"Ohhh, man." Peter breathed the phrase gratefully while staring at the white porcelain spilled out of one shattered crate. He gave it a shove, budging it not an inch, then leaned weakly on the frame of a fork lift. "That was close. We would have looked like pie crust."  
  
Ray Stantz stared at the too-solid evidence of their near miss. Rather than relief, however, his boyish features hardened, growing white with rage. "He tried to kill me!" he howled, soft brown eyes now flashing murder. "I'm gonna fry that jerk!" To Peter's obvious astonishment, the normally gentle hearted young man twisted the dial of his thrower to full power and jumped lightly on top of the nearest crate. "Ramon!" he bellowed, glaring around the warehouse with undisguised fury. "Come out here and face me like a man ... or whatever."  
  
A wild laugh answered this challenge, seeming to come from all directions at once. Peter joined his colleague atop the makeshift platform, picking up his ears to make out their opponent's slurred words.  
  
"Bet ya!" Cerrito gibbered gaily, peeking around a corner. "Bet ya brains with a baseball bat!"  
  
The words might have been a red flag before a bull to judge by the effect they had on Ray Stantz. He flipped a strand of auburn hair back off his forehead and deliberately brought his particle thrower up, then down in an awkward marksman's stance. His finger tightened on the trigger; another second would have seen the madman's life end in a fiery hell of hard radiation, but Peter snagged his wrist, dragging the barrel down. "Wait," the older man ordered, forced to drop his own weapon to maintain a grip.  
  
The response was hardly amiable and completely unreined. Spitting with fury through clenched teeth, Ray yanked at his entrapped wrist, using his free arm to give Peter's chest a hard shove. "He tried to kill me!" he repeated loudly. "Let me go!"  
  
His own well-developed muscles tight as bands, Peter held firm, now having to use both hands to prevent his youngest partner from carrying out his intention. "I said wait." Despite the effort it required to hold onto Stantz, he cocked his head, listening closely to the endless stream of babble, enlightenment as the pattern emerged.  
  
"Beachball, best bat your bar." The young Latino seemed to have an endless supply of 'B' words and was obviously seeking to use them all up at once. "Barbara, before...."  
  
"Winston." Peter beckoned the black man nearer by jerking his head, not daring to loose his restraint on Ray for an instant. "Go out to the car and look into the second compartment on the driver's side rear. You'll find a black leather bag there. Bring it to me."  
  
"I thought the slaves done got freed," Zeddemore snarled, but nonetheless slipped past the entwined two and headed for the firedoor, mumbling oaths to himself.  
  
Peter's jaw tightened at the comment, green eyes boring into the man's blue clad back. But he made no reply, rather cutting his gaze to the tall blond watching dispassionately from the side. "Egon, did you get a reading on our friend there?"  
  
The PKE meter remained where it had fallen after Ramon's induced 'avalanche.' Reminded, the physicist retrieved it, giving it a single expert scan before arcing it from east to west. "PKE relatively normal," he reported, studying the readings with a raised brow. "No evidence of N-E presence anywhere in the building."  
  
"I figured as much." Venkman released Stantz as soon as Cerrito had dived behind a crate out of sight, busying himself with retrieving his trailing barrel. Ray rubbed at the red marks on his wrist, lips parted to give voice to the hatred that lived in his expressive features, but Egon spoke first, giving him no chance.  
  
"You know what's going on?" the physicist asked, following Peter's example and holstering his thrower. He stood slightly crouched, confident his gangly frame could react with the speed of a jaguar at need. But he was more reasoned than Stantz, his gaze fixed expectantly on the psychologist. "What's your plan?"  
  
Venkman waved one hand expansively. His smile was slow and lazy and obviously contrived to hide the racing mind behind the facade. "I'm working on it guys," he drawled. "I will tell you one thing -- that baby's loco."  
  
"No kidding." Refusing to stow his own weapon, Stantz maintained his 'ready' position, features still tight, alert for further signs of ambush. There was implacable death in his gaze, and only the tattered fray of control. "You have any other revelations for us?"  
  
Peter shook his head. Although resentment flashed in his eyes, his voice was calm enough, perhaps misleadingly so -- the eye of a hurricane, perhaps. "I mean that literally. This kid's no more possessed than you are. I think he's schizophrenic."  
  
"What?" Egon's blond brows drew together in a frown, disbelief further edging the sharp planes of his face. He pushed his red-framed glasses higher on his long nose, until he could look through them down at his colleague. "That's a rather premature diagnosis, isn't it, Doctor Venkman? How can you possibly tell that from here?"  
  
"From his speech." Thudding footsteps heralded the return of Zeddemore; Venkman accepted the black bag and set it on a nearby workbench. He rummaged around inside for a moment, coming up with a glass bottle and wad of cotton. "That obsession he has with sound patterns is symptomatic of certain forms of schizophrenia, and the lack of high PKE levels proves it. That boy isn't possessed -- he's sick."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Winston puffed, interest making him forget his irritation with the psychologist for the moment.  
  
Peter held up the bottle. "If we can get him down long enough, I can knock him out with this chloroform. Then we call Bellview and hit a pizza parlor. With our fee, of course."  
  
The explanation made sense. Relaxing fractionally, Winston and Egon nodded their approval; Ray, however, still impassioned by his near miss, was not so easily convinced. "If he's not possessed," he insisted, fingering his thrower handle, "then how do you explain a skinny little teenager tossing whole bathtubs around?"  
  
"Easy enough." Peter stowed the bottle and cotton safely into his pocket, resting his fists lightly on his hips. "The strength of the human body should not be underestimated when dealing with a disturbed mind. The body is fully capable of overriding its normal psychologically induced physiological limitations on the muscular system, availing it of all the strength of which said system is capable of producing." He grinned. "Clinical Psychology as Applied to the Psychotic Mind, 1971 edition."  
  
Though singularly unhappy about the situation, even Ray dropped his argument to Peter's plan. By unspoken agreement, the four automatically assumed combat positions, spacing themselves several feet apart. "You better be right about this, Venkman," Winston warned, leading the way down a likely side aisle. "One slip up and this dude could turn the Ghostbusters into Ghostsushi."  
  
"Oh, ye of little faith," Venkman mourned, bringing up the rear. Breaking into two teams, the men began a systematic search of the huge warehouse, always careful to remain in sight of their fellows. Faint scrabbling was often heard, but their target knew the warehouse too well to be cornered easily. Quadrant by quadrant the building was covered, nearly twenty minutes elapsing before a flash of movement brought Ray's head up and to the left. There, standing precariously on a stack of piled bathtubs, stood Ramon, boldly surveying them from above.  
  
Contact and response were nearly simultaneous. "I have him!" the young engineer exclaimed, firing a short burst of proton from the hip. At Peter's warning, he growled something and altered his original target -- one that would certainly have removed Ramon's head from his shoulders. His aim was good, the stream hitting exactly six inches from one dirty loafer. The psychotic youth windmilled his arms several times in a failed attempt to maintain his balance, then uttered a loud yell and pitched forward to the floor, eight feet below.  
  
"Come on, let's get him!" Ray leaped onto the rolling body, receiving a punch in the midsection and a kick to the shin for his trouble. He yelped in pain but didn't stop his scramble to grab one skinny arm. "That ... that's the second time my stomach...." He broke off as Ramon twisted again, lashing out with a strength far superior to what his small frame should have been capable. Ray was thrown off a split second before Winston joined the fray, Egon close at his heels. The blond threw himself across the boy's flailing legs while Zeddemore and a snarling Stantz each clung to one bony wrist.  
  
"Hurry, Pete! Ow!" Egon gasped, taking a kick on the arm. "He's getting free!"  
  
Ever the consummate professional where his own field was concerned, Peter took his time, carefully measuring the chloroform out before clapping the wet cotton over Ramon's nose and mouth. "Breathe deep, kid," he said quietly, securing his hold on the tossing head. "You're all right now ... deep ... that's right." Twenty seconds later, Ramon was unconscious.  
  
Tension reigned a moment longer until they were sure Cerrito was out, then Ray swallowed hard and rolled off the limp body, rubbing ruefully at his re- bruised abdomen. "Whew! For awhile there, I was afraid you were wrong about him not being possessed, Peter. He sure put up a fight."  
  
"I'll have you know, Dr. Stantz, that I'm a specialist, too." The twice- Ph.D recipient Venkman's words were light enough, but his eyes were very cool indeed at the perceived slight. "I don't question you on your gizmos, do I?"  
  
"Doesn't matter now, anyway." Zeddemore pulled himself to his feet and prodded their captive lightly with the toe of one boot; the Latino made a little snoring sound but didn't react beyond that. "I'll tell those chicks outside to call an ambulance, then I'm going to wait in the car. I'd rather not be anywhere in the neighborhood if Ramon here decides to go for round two."  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

"...and I'm telling you, Egon, boosting the power output on the psychometer is not going to give you a better spectral analysis." Ray leaned across the desk, tapping the rough diagrams with one forefinger, shoving his other hand into the pocket of his pressed jeans. "According to those random psi analyses Peter was working on, you're going to have to filter the emission bands down from the broad spectrum before you can graph the results accurately." He straightened, cocking his head at the hard faced physicist. "I told you that last week."  
  
"You told me." The tone itself was a denigration, the blond's voice no less brittle than his face. With blue eyes hard as chips of ice, Egon Spengler absently snapped one brown suspender strap, somehow making the sound a deliberate insult. "And I must say, Raymond, I'm becoming exceptionally fatigued at hearing a barely adequate mathematics student lecture me on psychonic multi-levels."  
  
"Maybe if you listened once in awhile," Stantz retorted, smooth cheeks flushing at the unfair dig, "you wouldn't always be blowing up the lab."  
  
Egon blinked, then straightened, drawing his dignity around him like a cloak. Without a word, he gathered up the schematics and withdrew to his lab, closing the door with a decided click.  
  
Ray stared forlornly at the solid partition for some moments, then kicked savagely at an inoffensive chair leg that happened to be in range. His sneaker connected, sending the chair several inches. "Darn him!"  
  
He was so upset that he never noticed the shadowy figure of Peter Venkman slip silently past the entry way, lean chin rested thoughtfully on his breast. For once not the center of one of the domestic conflicts that had plagued Ghostbusters Central since the Ramon Cerrito case, Peter had been able to stand back and observe this confrontation with some degree of detachment. He frowned, replaying the scenario again and again in his mind, deeply disturbed by what he'd witnessed. He'd known Stantz and Spengler for well over a decade now, had seen them work what amounted to technological miracles using that peculiar communion of knowledge and abilities unique to the duo and intrinsic to their relationship. They'd argued before --- over conclusions, over application, even ethics -- but their arguments had always been modulated by a deep affection as familial as any blood ties, and forged in shared blood and mutual respect. Not in all the time he'd known them -- neither despite heated debates nor cold logic -- never once had Peter seen that degree of malicious vitriol sere the air between the two close friends.  
  
A mirror decorated the near wall of the hallway; he stopped to peer into it, meeting dark circled, dulled green eyes that barely resembled his own. "Egon wouldn't have tried to humiliate Ray," he told the image, even more astonished at hearing the concept spoken aloud. "He remembers the way it was back in college; he'd amputate his own tongue before he'd cut the kid down like that again. And Ray's never spoken to anyone like that in his life, much less to Egon."  
  
The reflection offered a sympathetic shake but no enlightenment. Venkman took a moment to finger comb his thick brown hair into some semblance of it's usual style, then made his way down to the second floor living quarters, having to dodge Slimer's enthusiastic greeting en route. The green nether-entity drooped sadly but had learned that impeding the progress of his heroes was a very bad idea indeed of late; Peter left him behind with relief. The brightly lit and mercifully empty kitchen was almost a haven, and Peter breathed a sigh, closing his eyes briefly against the perpetual knot in his gut. Something sticky drew his attention to a large spot of green barely visible against his fortunately dark colored slacks. "Slimer's concentration is slipping again," he growled, snagging a dirty dishtowel off the rack. He dabbed at the slime, which was already evaporating, while pouring himself a glass of milk from the refrigerator. He drained it in one gulp, hoping against hope that it would calm his persistently queasy stomach. It helped -- slightly -- although Venkman feared that nothing short of declared peace was going to return gastronomic stability at this point in time.  
  
He was putting the milk away when Ray Stantz entered the kitchen, rubbing his own stomach through his cotton shirt. The two stared at each other warily, Ray sullen, Peter brutally tamping down the irritation he felt at being disturbed. He broke the acidic spell then, refilling his glass and pushing it across. "Try this," he suggested, restoring the carton to the refrigerator. Despite a conscious effort, there was no way for him to control the irrational wave of anger he felt when the other man didn't obediently pick up the glass. "What's the matter?" he taunted, fixing his attention on the dripping faucet. "Afraid it's poisoned?"  
  
Automatic regret tinged his irritation, and he did look up then, a tentative and hard-won apology on his lips, only to see the full glass go hurtling across the room to shatter against the wall by the stove. Milk dripped down the plaster, forming a puddle on the red-and-white checked linoleum floor.  
  
"What the--?!" Peter spun, glaring, violence in his heart, but the youngest Ghostbuster had already disappeared. "You're going to clean that up, Stantz!" he bellowed, good intentions fleeing before this latest outrage. "I... I.... Oh, blast." Snarling oaths under his breath, Peter grabbed his jacket and left, preferring the drizzling New York weather outside the firehouse to the heavy oppression within.  
  
***  
  
The two calls that had been deferred in favor of the pack maintenance were scheduled for the next morning and turned out to be extremely routine, neither worthy of the 'immediate' response status they had been initially assigned. Two hours and two full traps later, the Ghostbusters returned to their base, disgruntled, hungry and out of sorts, Peter declaring that the next time a client cried "Emergency!" and it wasn't, he was going to neutronize said client on the spot, fee or no.  
  
Fortunately, this dire possibility failed to materialize, along with any other possibilities. Dimensional breaches must have dropped off drastically, for the next several days saw no new calls coming in at all. The lack of purpose combined with a full scale bout of ennui, frayed tempers well past the breaking point. Even Janine, relatively unaffected by the increased resentment between her employers but hardly known for her sweet temperament, was involved in no less than two spiteful altercations by week's end. She stormed out early Friday, returning Monday wearing an icy civility which bespoke better than words the degree of indignation she still felt.  
  
Egon retired to his lab after the final cases had been disposed of, appearing only rarely at mealtimes and tarrying not a minute. The winter frost he projected deterred them all -- even the infatuated and persistent Janine -- from seeking him out; thus, he was left alone to work on his spectral analysis project. His mood was not improved by his getting exactly nowhere on its development, as Stantz had earlier predicted.  
  
The remaining three Ghostbusters fared no better. The warm relationship they'd shared for years seemed to have evaporated overnight, leaving in its wake a tidal morass of hurt feelings, anger, and resentment. No two words could be exchanged without a battle breaking out, and productive activity slowed to a halt. Tensions increased, coming to a head one day during dinner.  
  
"I don't believe this!" Winston eyed his laden plate with an expression he usually reserved for one of Egon's mold specimens, turning the same look on his auburn haired colleague, seated to his left. "This is the third time in two weeks! Can't you cook anything besides this lousy chicken?"  
  
A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only sign that Ray had heard the other's protest at all. A napkin lay neatly across his thigh, fork poised by his hand, but he made no effort to apply himself to his food. The enclosed room was slightly steamy and filled with cooking aromas. Having disdained the dining room as being too much trouble to set, they sat alone at the kitchen table; Peter was still washing his hands and Egon's only response to the meal call had been an incoherent grunt.  
  
The black Ghostbuster watched his youngest colleague like a cat at a mousehole. Rather than mollifying, the younger man's continued silence engendered a hard gleam in Winston's dark eyes, providing a spark to waiting tinder. Not letting the point drop, he held his steak knife as though it were a dagger, and prodded the hated chicken with the point. Lumpy gravy spilled over the plate onto the tablecloth, staining the red a pale gray. "I said, I don't like this slop," he reiterated a little louder, grimacing at the mess. "Did you hear me?"  
  
Ray regarding his own plate with studied disinterest, his uncut hair falling forward into his eyes. "It's all we have in the house," he replied tightly, rubbing his palms on the legs of his jeans. "You were supposed to go shopping--"  
  
The spark caught. "Oh, it's my fault!" Zeddemore placed his hands flat on the table, using them to push himself deliberately to his feet. The salt shaker wobbled and fell over, its soft thump somehow ominous in the sudden hush. "You white boys are always ready to blame me for everything, aren't you?" he charged, circling the table with a measured tread. "Kick the only nigger here, is that right?"  
  
Ray looked up, shocked by the unaccustomed enmity in that statement. Having grown up in a small, exclusively white farming community, race had simply never been an issue to him as a young boy, nor had it ever presented itself as a concept to the man. That it would matter to any of his friends had been inconceivable ... until now. "But-- but I never...." he stammered, visibly baffled out of his own flaring temper.  
  
A six foot, one inch powerhouse and outweighing his opponent by twenty-five pounds, Zeddemore advanced inexorably, stopping when he was no more than four inches from Ray's tense form. "You've been wanting me off this team for a long time, haven't you, Stantz? Well, kid, you're gonna pay for that privilege."  
  
Ray made it no more than halfway to his feet before Winston struck, his punishing right cross sending the smaller man clear out of his chair and slamming him hard against the stove. Pots rattled and one saucepan slipped off the burner to land with a clatter beside Ray's left foot. Stunned, the younger teammate could only stare, one hand coming up to the side of his face. Mechanically tugging his uniform sleeves up over muscular forearms, Winston stalked his prey, a juggernaut. "First installment," he sneered, rubbing his skinned knuckles.  
  
That was all the further he got. One moment the black Ghostbuster was leaning forward, arm cocked to deliver a smashing coup de gras to Ray's unprotected face; the next, he was flying across the room himself, hitting the opposite wall with a thud; he slid down its expanse, blinking stupidly up at the unexpected source of this attack.  
  
"Get up, Zeddemore." The tone was low and very deadly, delivered between teeth clenched tight. Despite the timely intercession, Peter Venkman didn't look at Ray, seemed not even to notice the younger man, who was struggling dazedly to his feet. Fists bunched and every muscle taut, the slim psychologist stood over Winston's sprawled form, rocking lightly on his toes, his eyes glittering like emeralds. "I said, get up!"  
  
"Oh, I'll get up." Shaking his head to clear it, Winston pulled himself erect, blood streaming from his nose. He brushed at it absently, wiping his hand clean on his blue-grey jumpsuit. Like the other, he too ignored Stantz, his whole attention now fixed on this new, more potentially dangerous opponent. "I'm gonna take you apart, white boy." He started forward and the brown haired psychologist advanced to meet him, brushing past Ray's hastily interposed form as though he weren't there. Both street- tough fighters, neither Venkman nor Zeddemore would give a single inch until the other was unconscious ... or worse.  
  
A movement from the doorway barely registered, but the deep bass came unexpectedly enough to distract the combatants from their first forward rush. As one, they turned to face the tall figure blocking the doorway, the animosity not muting with his appearance. "What's going on here?" Egon Spengler demanded, adjusting his glasses with his forefinger.  
  
The quartet regarded each other warily for some seconds, then Winston's shoulders hunched. "So it's like that, is it?" he asked harshly, his glance flicking from Egon to Ray to Peter. "I suppose y'all are pretty tough when there's three of you." He made a disgusted noise in his throat, then stomped brazenly past the blond physicist and down the stairs. "I ain't stupid enough to take on all three of you at once," he offered as a parting shot.  
  
"I don't need anyone's help to take you out!" Peter shouted, starting after him.  
  
One hand clamped to his swelling jaw, Ray again stepped in front of his friend, waving the other one helplessly in the air. "Peter--"  
  
"Shut up!" Venkman snarled so savagely that Ray actually fell back a pace. Louder, "Did you hear me, Zeddemore?"  
  
"I hear you, white bread." Winston's hard voice echoed up the staircase from the proximity of the front door. "Watch your backs; next time it's my turf," and he was gone.  
  
The only sound for some moments after was that of Egon's white lab coat rustling when he automatically moved to restore the salt shaker to its upright position. "Would somebody mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked, square jaw tightening upon spying the roasted chicken.  
  
Neither of the others paid him any mind; they stood regarding each other blankly at first, expressions growing taut. "Peter...." The auburn haired engineer rubbed his jaw again, as though speaking hurt, then reached out to touch Venkman hesitantly on the shoulder. "Peter, I...."  
  
Cold green eyes shifted, examining Ray's troubled features with distaste. "You really should learn to fight your own battles," he said contemptuously. Tucking in his shirt, he pushed his way past, disappearing in the direction of the bathroom.  
  
That left only two. "Raymond," Spengler began, but Stantz only shook his head and fled for the stairs.  
  
Egon watched him go, his blond curl shaking with his head. Without a word, he turned off the stove and retired to his own lab not to be seen again that night.  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

Circumstances improved not at all following Winston's departure. Tension and anger increased steadily and arguments were common. The three no longer took meals together as had been their custom, preferring rather to live on coffee and junk food directly from the cupboard. Things got so bad that Janine declared soon after that she wasn't being paid enough to work in a pressure cooker, and if things didn't start to change soon, she was, "going job hunting, make no mistake about it!"  
  
Peter's caustic, "I hear Macy's is looking for someone to follow the horses after the next parade," nearly got him beaned on the spot.  
  
Janine returned to her typing, discussing the matter with an unhappy Slimer later that afternoon. "What's happened around here, Slimer?" she asked, pausing to erase the dozenth mistake in as many minutes. "These guys have been friends for years. Do you know what's going on?"  
  
The little ghost/nether-entity only keened sadly to itself and disappeared into the filing cabinet when Peter passed through the reception area, not reemerging until the psychologist was gone.  
  
"Wish I could do that," Janine muttered, applying White-Out like mad.  
  
Calls remained scarce, which was serendipitous as the three remaining Ghostbusters could no longer even pass in the hall without a harsh word or glare being exchanged. Though tempers simmered, the second major eruption didn't occur until the Wednesday after Winston left. It had been a tense day of relative inactivity; Peter had spent the afternoon watching soap operas, insulting the actors' abilities, and generally making himself a nuisance to anyone in the area. Seeking to escape the psychologist's all- pervading presence, Ray prowled the basement workshop, rearranging the shelving so completely that he could no longer find a thing. Egon, as usual, remained locked in the third floor lab, as isolated as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. Now, at six p.m., the air fairly crackled with unrelieved animosity, the setting perfect for disaster.  
  
It was bound to happen sooner or later. The third floor housed a main laboratory, storage facilities, shower and communal bunkroom, the access to each area off a narrow hall at the top of the spiral stairs. Egon Spengler took the three paces out of the bunkroom to the bathroom door, glowering upon finding further progress impeded. Clad only in robe and slippers, his intention to take a shower was obvious. "You're blocking the door to the bathroom," he snapped, peering balefully down through his thick lenses.  
  
The recipient of that indictment was crouched on the floor tying the laces on a pair of battered Reeboks. Ray looked up with a defiant glare, making no attempt at hurrying the bow he was making. "Stick it in your ear, Spengler," he muttered under his breath.  
  
Offense turned the older man's light skin rosy. He sniffed his disdain, unflappable poise a more effective weapon than a shout. "Very original remark -- for an uneducated protozoan." He was around the obstruction and slamming the bathroom door only seconds before the enraged engineer found his feet and lunged.  
  
"Come back here, Spengler!" he screamed, slamming his fist into the door. The heavy wood shuddered but held; the only response from within was the sound of a running shower, perfectly designed to infuriate by its very indifference.  
  
The studied insult stabbed home. Totally out of control, Ray punched the door again, a powerful blow which generated several cracks ... most of them in the bones of his right hand. "EGON! ... Ow!" He fell back, cradling his hand, sudden pain restoring some semblance of sobriety until a soft chuckle from behind reignited it like a torch.  
  
"That was stupid," Peter jeered, lounging negligently, his arms crossed across his white shirted chest. "Would you like to try for a concussion next?" Whatever else he'd planned to say was strangled into an inarticulate gurgle as a solid body plowed into him from the front, and steely fingers wrapped themselves around his windpipe, starting to squeeze.  
  
"Ugh!" Peter gurgled a protest, falling backwards, arms and legs flailing in all directions. He smacked into the polished wood floor with a thud, bringing his attacker down with him. With the wind forced out of his lungs by the impact, Ray's death grip dislodged just long enough for Venkman to suck in a deep breath and begin to struggle in earnest. He clawed at the fingers choking his life away, while bringing up one knee intending to catch the other man in the groin. Shrewdly expecting the maneuver, Ray twisted his body to the left, catching the blow against his thigh, and bore down harder, pleasant, boyish features livid with a killing rage. Within seconds Peter's face, contorted into a rictus with the strain for survival, began to turn blue.  
  
Despite having cut his teeth with the violent street gangs of his native Brooklyn, the contest had seriously ranged against Peter from the start. Now, death only a heartbeat away and only urgent need fueling his reserves, he lashed out in a final, desperate riposte, balling his fist and bringing it up in a long, solid hook. He caught Ray squarely on the same jaw Winston had damaged days earlier, knocking the younger man to the side and forcing a muffled gasp from his lips. Off balance, Ray cracked his head sharply against the door frame, and slumped, unable to move for some seconds.  
  
The momentary respite gave Peter Venkman the opportunity to haul himself to a sitting position though no further. Giddy and visibly nauseated, he sat rubbing his throat and pulling great gulps of air into his starved lungs, chest heaving until his complexion began to reassume its normal, healthy color. He blinked, only then able to check on the whereabouts of his attacker; he was nearly too late.  
  
Allowing himself no reprieve at all, Stantz had by then already gained his knees and was crawling unsteadily closer to the fallen psychologist. The bruise on his jaw had spread up onto his cheekbone, coloring half his face in a truly monumental rainbow array. He shook his head dizzily but his eyes were clear, and in their amber depths were written Peter Venkman's obituary.  
  
Venkman, however, was hardly in a mood to oblige. Giving his colleague no opportunity to assume an attack posture, the psychologist launched himself from a sitting position, catching his youngest teammate around the chest and depositing them both back onto the floor, this time Venkman in a controlling stance on top. From this close proximity, the two traded vicious punches for several long minutes, neither able to win a decisive advantage over the other. Peter managed to deliver two hard rabbit punches to Ray's midsection, then took one to the mouth himself. It was a solid blow, snapping Peter's head back and drawing blood. It might have turned the tide completely; Ray had, however, used his right hand to deliver it. Thus, the startled cry of pain which resulted did not belong to Peter alone.  
  
Unaccountably, both men paused at the sound, years-long reflexes kicking in on cue. Two pairs of eyes met -- one golden brown, the other hazel green -- and for the merest breath of time there was the remembrance of a friend. Then the moment was passed, and only the hatred remained. Ray's eyes narrowed and Peter drew back his fist.  
  
The harsh clang of the firehouse bell shattered that brittle silence in which two men had battled. Maintaining his control, Peter remained astride the other's chest, but at that he jerked upright, dropping his fist in alarm. "Wha--?"  
  
"It's Janine," Ray panted, shoving vainly at Peter's leg in an attempt to free himself. With the taller man's full weight positioned on his diaphragm, he could barely breathe much less move. "We ... we have a job."  
  
"Uh, yeah. Right." Tension draining in a rush, Peter spared the swollen, defiant face below him a confused glance before sliding off and climbing to his feet. Something sticky ran down his chin and Peter wiped at it with his sleeve; the material immediately stained red. "Terrific. And I've got a date tonight," he muttered, making his way unsteadily down the hall.  
  
Shaking badly from the adrenalin reaction, Stantz lay where he was another long minute, cradling his right hand in his left. His eyes were distressed, but it was not the physical discomfort which robbed him of energy and motion, but an emotional scoring too deep to be borne. Only the sound of the shower being shut off galvanized him into action. "C-can't let Egon ... find me like this," he murmured, rolling painfully onto his side. "He'll l- laugh." With a furtive look toward the bunkroom, Ray staggered to his feet and headed for the third floor washroom to clean up. When Egon finally emerged from the bath, there wasn't a sign of the preceding altercation save a single drop of blood on the carpet.  
  
***  
  
After yelling at Janine to "Turn off that bell before I shove it down your throat!" Peter crossed the littered concrete floor to his locker and pulled out his brown uniform coverall. He stepped into it quickly, lacing up high work boots, then returned to the woman's desk to receive whatever specifics she'd gathered on the upcoming assignment. Half his mind absorbed the information she rattled off from a work sheet; the other half remained firmly locked on the incident just passed. In the space of ten minutes, three old and dear friends had gone out of their ways to irritate, assault and even -- Peter could admit this only to himself -- kill each other, all without sufficient provocation. As a man he still seethed at the attempt on his person and his life; Dr. Venkman-the-psychologist stepped back, attempting to examine the situation from a professional point of view. He was able to gain enough distance to ask the question, "Why?" but was unable to pursue the matter to any form of logical conclusion. Also, he was beginning to feel a nasty -- if tardy -- thrill from his own inner alarm system, the feeling that all was not precisely as it seemed.  
  
Securing a pen and sheet of paper from the desk, he began to write, making several notations in a neat, cursive script. "Janine?"  
  
Melnitz interrupted her fourth chorus of "...and I'm not going to be abused by the likes of you, either!" to stare at him balefully through her triangular glasses. "What?"  
  
"Janine, if anything happens to us on this call...."  
  
"Happens to you?" That got the woman's attention. She sat up straighter, painted fingernails tangling anxiously in the material of her yellow blouse. "Is Egon going into danger?"  
  
Peter shrugged, controlling the surge of irritation at her words. "I don't know what, if anything, is going down on this call," he pointed out curtly, wishing she would just listen. "I'm only trying to cover some possibilities. Pay attention."  
  
He gazed solemnly into her green eyes, directing the full force of his considerable charisma into making her understand and obey. "I'm going to contact you at regular intervals. If you don't hear from me by..." He checked his watch. "...midnight, I want you to find Winston and give him this." He proffered the slip of paper, folded in half. "Make sure you notify the police, too."  
  
She accepted the message hesitantly, red hair drooping into her eyes when she bent over it. "Where is Winston?" she asked, tone matching his own.  
  
"How the...." He stopped himself, willing the impatience away, striving for reasonableness. He needed her cooperation, and knowing their hot-tempered Jewish secretary as he did, browbeating her would only produce the reverse. "I don't know, Janine. Find him." Then, gritting his teeth against another spiteful remark on her lack of comprehension, Peter turned his back and began to run an equipment check on his pack. The secretary only watched him, for once not saying a single word.  
  
***  
  
Tamika Rogers was a tall, slender woman, thirty-six summers old, whose job on a local newaspaper had brought her into contact with the Ghostbusters nearly two months past. The story on the team had taken a week to write during which she and Winston had spent considerable time in each other's company; their relationship developed by easy, comfortable stages. It was to her apartment Winston had gone after leaving Ghostbusters Central, and there he'd remained for the last several days. Tamika had left almost immediately on an assignment, so Winston had simply made himself at home, grateful for the quiet, secure haven of his solitude.  
  
Five days after the black Ghostbuster's taking up residence, Tamika made her way from the elevator down the carpeted hall, travel bag in one hand, laptop computer in the other. She dropped the bag outside the door to her apartment, pausing to listen to the sounds from within. The unmistakable timbres of Bob Barker emanated from a television turned much to loud and, in the background she could make out another man quietly urging some nameless contestant to "Spin Again!" Generous, red-painted lips parting in a smile, Tamika used her key and went in.  
  
The sight that awaited her turned the smile into an open grin. Clad only in a pair of checkered shorts, with a bowl of pretzels balanced on his chest, Winston lay draped across the living room sofa, his gaze avidly glued to the television screen. He looked up when she entered, then deposited the pretzels on the end table and rose to enfold the slim woman in 205 pounds of solid hug. "Hey, baby!" he greeted, squeezing tight. "Am I ever glad to see you!"  
  
"I'm certainly seeing enough of you," she giggled, pulling back to eye the atrocious boxers interestedly. "Sugah, you an' me're hitting Macy's first thing tomorrow."  
  
Unembarrassed, the well-built black man pirouetted in place to the accompaniment of a hummed 'Bump and Grind.' "It ain't the shorts, baby..."  
  
"...it's what's in 'em!" they finished in chorus. Tamika rolled her eyes. "Where have I heard that before? And how often?" She arranged her pleated skirt over long legs and sat, pulling Winston down onto the couch next to her. "So what have you been doing since I left?" she asked, dropping her purse at her feet and stretching hugely.  
  
Winston snaked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nuzzling her affectionately on the neck. "Watching the tube mostly," he sighed as an answer, "and guzzling six packs right and left." Releasing her briefly, he leaned forward, retrieving a nearly full can of Coors from the coffee table, having to sort through several empty containers to do so. He located his beer and leaned back again, tapping it meaningfully with his thumb. "There's more in the fridge," he suggested.  
  
Making no move to accept the implied invitation, Tamika gave the littered coffee table a glare. "I take it this means you haven't talked to the guys?"  
  
Aluminum crinkled in Winston big hand. He forcibly loosened his hold and took a swig of his beer before answering. "I haven't talked to anyone since you left," he admitted. "I... I guess I needed to think things through -- to try and make sense out of what happened."  
  
Tamika laid one cafe-au-lait hand on his darker one and squeezed, letting her long nails rasp gently across his skin. "Did you come to any conclusions?"  
  
"Nope." Zeddemore leaned his elbows on his knees and hunched his shoulders. Every line of his body bespoke depression and strain. "It's kind of hard to talk about," he said softly. "'Mika, did I tell you exactly what went down at the firehouse?"  
  
She tugged the beer from his tight grip, letting the cool liquid spill down the back of her throat. She swallowed gratefully, and took another hefty drink before handing it back. "You didn't tell me much. You said that you and the others had argued, that you quit the team and then you asked for an icepack for your nose." She bent forward, examining the appendage in question with a critical eye. "At least the swelling has gone down. But you still sound nasal."  
  
The puffy skin puckered slightly when Winston touched it; he probed gently around his eyes and on both sides of his nose, a rueful laugh escaping through his teeth. "Wonder it wasn't broken. Venkman packs a mean right."  
  
"So it was Peter you were fighting with?" she asked, nodding wisely.  
  
"No. Yes. Sort of."  
  
Winston bowed his head and Tamika sat back, pretending to be absorbed in The New Price is Right until her paramour was ready to talk again. "Sort of?" she prodded, nearly five minutes later.  
  
"Lawd, 'Mika, this ain't easy." Winston drained the nearly empty can and deposited it with its brethren on the coffee table. He stood and headed for the kitchen, returning a moment later with two more. "Cheers," he said, popping a tab.  
  
"Skoal." They drank in companionable silence for a moment more, then Tamika took Winston's beer, set it beside her own and took his right hand in both of hers. "I think you need to talk about this," she decided. "So talk."  
  
Zeddemore squared his wide shoulders, weaving his fingers tightly together. "Started off with an argument with Ray. Over nothing, really. I said some ... pretty bad things. Then I ... hit him."  
  
"You hit Ray Stantz?!" Large eyes opened wide in unfeigned horror. "Winston, hitting that sweet boy is like ... is like hitting my sister's puppy!"  
  
"That makes me feel so much better!" Winston retorted, unconsciously using one of Peter's pet phrases.  
  
"Well it is."  
  
"I know it is." Zeddemore sighed deeply, curly head bowed forward. "I know it is," he repeated. "What I don't know is why I did it ... or why I went in to finish the job."  
  
"Oh, my...." Rogers breathed. "Did you...?" She stopped, swallowing audibly, hesitating as though she wasn't sure she really wanted to know. "How bad did you hurt that boy, Winston?"  
  
By way of answer, Winston gently tapped his nose, turning his head to offer the woman a rueful smile. "Like I said, Peter's got one punishing right. And he doesn't let anyone mess with Ray. Not me. Not even Egon."  
  
"Did you and Peter--" The phone chose that moment to ring. Winston reached to pick it up, but Tamika stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Let it ride," she suggested mildly. "They'll call back."  
  
Acknowledging the truth of this with an absent nod, the black ex-soldier, ex-Ghostbuster dropped his hand and waited for the insistent ringing to stop. It was another full minute before there was silence. "You know, if Peter hadn't interfered, I think I really would have killed Ray," he went on, dropping his gaze again. "I took him out with a sucker punch before he could even stand up, then I went out to finish the job. I've never been that out of control before -- all I wanted to do was to pound his face into applesauce. And if Egon hadn't shown up when he did, Pete and I would have...." He broke off, unable to go on for some seconds. When he resumed, it was in a hushed voice, full of guilt and shame. "The whole time this was going on, there was something inside that kept telling me not to do it, that these were my friends. But I couldn't stop myself. I.... Oh, Tamika." Leaning forward, Winston buried his face in his hands, groaning aloud . "How could I have done it? Ray's just a kid! I would have killed him. I wanted to kill Peter."  
  
Long braids swinging forward, Tamika threw her arms around the distressed man, holding him close. "No, you wouldn't've, baby. You love them too much."  
  
He looked up as though surprised to hear the sentiment so bluntly voiced. "Yeah, I do," he admitted, wrapping her arms more securely about himself. "A lot." He chuckled ruefully. "But how I ever managed to hook myself in with the weirdest bunch of juvenile delinquents this side of Bellview is something I'll never figure out!"  
  
"They're not that weird," she chided gently. "Well... maybe...."  
  
"You bet they are!" Winston leaned back, drawing the woman with him. "You haven't lived, baby, 'til you've seen Egon puttering around with that fungus collection of his. He even names the petri dishes! You sayin' that ain't weird?"  
  
Nestled against his broad chest, Tamika laughed merrily at the thought. "You do have a point," she conceded. "But he seems like a very nice man."  
  
"Egon?" The Ghostbuster nodded, dark eyes softening with old affection. "Egon's the greatest. You remember hearing about when my brother LeRoy got killed in that rumble with the Skulls last year? I woke up that night feeling pretty down, and Egon must have heard me get out of bed. He made coffee and sat with me the entire night, just listening mostly to me talking about LeRoy. I-I'm not sure I would have made it through the night without him." He ran a hand slowly through his short, curly hair. "Peter and LeRoy could've been cut from the same mold; they're both hotheaded and rash and as loyal as they come. And Ray ... nicest kid in the world, and I try to pound him into the ground." He broke off, guilt returning full- force. "I made a real fool out of myself, 'Mika."  
  
"So what else is new?" Her impish grin was met with a look of hurt surprise, and she hurried to elaborate. "Look, baby, everybody fights sometimes. Look at you and me."  
  
"Ain't it the truth." Winston laughed aloud, squeezing the woman's shoulders. "We've had some real knock-down-drag-outs in our time. We always make up reeeal good though," he added, kissing her cheek.  
  
"So go make up." Tamika turned her face earnestly up to his, ready sympathy adding warmth to her gaze. "You've been friends three years now. Go talk to them and at least make peace."  
  
"I know, babe, you're right." He sighed. "I'll go this afternoon. but first," he smiled, promise lighting his black eyes, "how about a proper welcome home?"  
  
"Thought you'd never ask," Tamika sighed, claiming his lips with her own.  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

Unlike many other so called 'haunted houses,' 421 W. Stuyvescent Boulevard was a modern, well-kept villa several hours drive out on Long Island. It sat apart from its neighbors, surrounded by several acres of woods, lawn and garden. The three Ghostbusters parked Ecto in the long drive leading up to the house and sat, none of them making any attempts to leave the car.  
  
"Not exactly the Amityville Horror," Ray commented to no one in particular.  
  
"PKE readings show above normal paranatural activity in the area," Egon announced from the back seat, "but nothing noteworthy." He fiddled with his meter, adjusting several knobs. "Several sets of readings; I'd say the house is the sight of severe...."  
  
"Oh, shut up, Egon," Peter snapped from the passenger's seat. "We know what 'paranatural activity' means." He paused, then reached resolutely for the car door handle. "We're getting nowhere sitting here, troops. Come on."  
  
The others obeyed with a decided lack of grace and began to assemble the equipment they would need. Ray slipped into his pack and stood regarding the house with a puzzled frown. "It's so ... unhaunted looking," he said aloud. "Like something out of Better House and Gardens. Hard to believe this place needs our services."  
  
"Shallow observations notwithstanding," Egon remarked bitingly, "We do have a job to do. Ray, you get...."  
  
"Get it yourself!" Stantz snapped, glaring defiantly into Egon's tight face. "I'm not your slave."  
  
"I simply thought..." Egon's bass grew, if anything, deeper yet. "...that you would want to make yourself useful. For once."  
  
Ray took an angry stop towards the taller man, brown eyes promising violence; Egon held his ground. Peter intervened before blood could be spilled. "Save it, men," he ordered, slipping into his 'team leader' mode. "We're on a call."  
  
Stantz and Spengler stared at each other truculently another long moment, then Egon broke contact, turning on his heel and fetching his proton pack. Ray finished buckling his own harness, Peter following suit, and soon the three were trudging up the long driveway to the house.  
  
"Do we have a key?" Ray asked as they neared the door.  
  
"Leave it to you to think of it now," Egon muttered disparagingly.  
  
"The key's under the mat." Peter spoke quickly, forestalling another bout, but inwardly he consigned both his partners to eternal flames. "The new owner told Janine that he was spending the next week in Hawaii; they want the house ready for habitation by the time they get back. Provided we leave enough of it to habitate," he joked weakly.  
  
"Damages are covered in our service contract," Egon pointed out, stooping to search for the key. It was there as promised, nestled in a plastic bag neatly tagged Ghostbusters. "Trusting sorts; anyone could have found it here."  
  
Peter peered into one shuttered window, striving to see inside. "Let's just hope the owner paid his electric bill -- I hate working in the dark."  
  
Egon used the key and the door opened at a touch, spilling sunlight into a roomy, modern interior resembling any other yuppie residence in the city. "Not bad," Venkman commented, fumbling for the switch. "Very nouveau."  
  
"We're not here to advise on the interior decoration," Egon grumbled, pointing his PKE meter around like a sword. "Low to moderate level concentrations in three specific locations: attic, ground floor rear and basement."  
  
Ray pulled his thrower from its rack, bringing it level with both hands. "Let's split up and get this over with."  
  
Doubt creased Venkman's dark brow; he hesitated just inside the door. "Wait, I ... think we should stick together on this one. Something doesn't feel right."  
  
"It doesn't feel right?" Ray poked his head behind an ornate French sofa, reemerging with cobwebs trapped in his hair. "That's real scientific, Peter," he jeered, pulling sticky strands away from his mouth. "Can you give me an equation on that?"  
  
"The PKE concentrations are low," Egon pointed out in a bored drone, just 'happening' to step between the two glaring men. "Nothing even remotely dangerous."  
  
"Don't tell me the great Peter Venkman is afraid," Ray jibed mercilessly, ducking around Spengler's intervening form.  
  
"I'm not afraid," the dark-haired Ghostbuster retorted smoothly. "I thought you'd want someone around to hold your hand -- as usual."  
  
That struck a nerve. Ray's admittedly tenuous hold on his temper stretched to breaking, held, then died. "I'll take the attic," he snapped, heading for the stair.  
  
Leaving the main floor to his blond companion, Peter chose the cellar, finding the steps off the kitchen. The light switch was not immediately apparent, so he began to inch down, feeling his way along. "Light must be along here somewhere," he muttered, still smarting from Ray's remark. He felt along the wall and stepped down ... onto nothing.  
  
"Yike!" Hurriedly, he backpedaled, catching his balance only by slapping his thrower barrel against the concrete. "Board's missing. I'd better go back for a flash." He turned cautiously, but found the kitchen's light blocked by a shadowy figure standing between himself and the door.  
  
"Oh, boy," Peter whispered, desperately bringing up his weapon. He was too late; the figure was upon him in a flash wrapping him in fold upon fold of velvet blackness. The thrower dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as the air vanished with the light. Valiantly, Peter fought, flailing out with both fist and boot, but could find no target against which to strike. Soon he knew nothing but the heavy lassitude of suffocation, and then he knew nothing at all.  
  
I told them we should have stuck together, was his last thought before the night swept him away.  
  
***  
  
The attic turned out to be a musty, windowless affair, piled high with boxes and bags and years of accumulated neglect. Ray stepped out of the stairwell, narrowly avoiding a large rat which scurried out of the way. "Oh, gosh," he gulped, looking around warily. "I hate rats."  
  
Treading carefully, he began a point-by-point search of the high ceilinged room. The attic ran the length of the house, and the light of the single bulb he found did little to illuminate its nether regions. Systematically examining each nook and corner, he worked in a circle pattern, finally ending his circuit back by the stairwell.  
  
"Nothing," he said aloud, disliking the quiet. "And I can't do anything unless I can get something specific." He paused, thinking furiously, something which seemed to have become harder of late. "I ... guess I ... could try an ultra-low level bombardment and see if I can force a nether- entity to show." He adjusted the setting on his proton pack, cradling his thrower in the crook of his arm. His hand had swollen badly over the past few hours, and he was starting to regret the stubborn pride which had prevented him from confessing his liability to the others. Dials set to satisfaction, he pressed the firing button, playing a stream of low-speed protons around the room. With little power and no heat, there was no possibility of fire, but the light show did elicit a satisfying collection of moans and wails from various corners of the room.  
  
"Ah-ha! Got you!" he crowed triumphantly. He adjusted the setting higher and took a single step backward. "Ready...." Unfortunately, that single step was his undoing. In the murky light he was unable to see the single form which did appear: an all-too-human hand at ankle height. In midstep and off balance, Ray had no way to catch himself when the hand grabbed the cuffs of his trouser and yanked upwards, precipitating him backward down the stairs. He tumbled head over heels down the steep incline, landing at the bottom in an untidy heap. The world, however, continued to revolve sickeningly and movement hurt. "You were right, Peter," Ray whispered before passing out.  
  
***  
  
Egon's bland expression revealed nothing, but inwardly he fumed, as angry with himself as he was with his colleagues. For days now he'd striven to distance himself from the tensions in the firehouse and to restore some of his habitually phlegmatic nature. He'd been unable to attain the proper scientific detachment he needed to examine himself -- or anything else -- properly, and this had worried him all the more. Absently, he patted his stomach which had been mildly upset lately. "Swell," he rumbled sourly. "I'm probably getting some disease on top of everything else. Something one of those cretins brought in -- that reprobate Venkman, no doubt."  
  
Starting in the living room, Spengler worked his way through the ground floor, finally ending his search in the area of highest PKE concentration, the rear bedroom. It was a neatly furnished chamber, decorated in maroon and pink, sporting an armchair, a queen sized bed and Sears TV on the nightstand.  
  
Slowly wending his way through the furniture, Egon examined every piece carefully, puzzled when his meter registered identical readings for each item. "Odd," he muttered, studying his results intently. "Everything is carrying the exact same valence, as though it were ... set ... deliberately?" Ice blue eyes widened in realization. "Peter was right! It's a set-up!"  
  
"Yes, it is," a smooth voice answered from the door.  
  
Egon spun, wildly scrambling for his thrower, and ran right into a hard knuckled fist delivered precisely to the point of his chin. Egon went down without a sound.  
  
"So sorry I had to do that, Dr. Spengler." The fist belonged to the tall, handsome man who had invaded the firehouse earlier. He positioned himself over Egon's limp body, rubbing his knuckles. "I couldn't take a chance on your detecting my servants and neutralizing them before they could accomplish my purposes, could I?'  
  
There was no answer from Egon, not that the bearded man seemed to expect one. He picked up the unconscious Spengler, hoisting him over one shoulder as he would a sack of grain. "Nothing to say, Dr. Spengler?" the man went on conversationally. "Have it your way then. I guarantee you'll be doing a lot of talking -- in my own good time."  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

A long time later found the three Ghostbusters locked in a featureless, windowless room sporting only a heavily barred door to break the monotony of stone walls and floor. The men were no longer clad in their jumpsuits; they had been methodically searched and stripped, allowed to retain only the light pants and t-shirts they wore under their uniforms. A bucket in the corner served as the only concession to the necessities, and there had been no effort to provide either food or water since the capture.  
  
In one corner, Ray Stantz lay asleep, huddled into a ball against the chill. He kept his arms curled tightly about himself and his face, normally childlike in repose, was pinched and drawn.  
  
Against the other wall, Egon sat contemplating a spider spinning her intricate webbing. Scientific detachment is even harder to achieve when one is hungry and thirsty and cold and scared, but he was finally starting to come to terms with the emotion which continued to plague his thinking processes. It had begun to abate a few hours ago, allowing him to order his thoughts somewhat better than before.  
  
"What time do you think it is?" Peter asked abruptly, pacing the cell like a great cat.  
  
The physicist roused from his reverie, oddly not minding the interruption. "About noon, I'd say. Of course that's no more than a guess."  
  
"Yeah. Scum took my watch, too." Peter threw himself down next to the physicist, crossing his bare feet under him. "We've been here maybe 25-30 hours and no one has paid us the slightest attention. Strange."  
  
"Very strange. I wonder what they want?"  
  
The darker man shrugged, rubbing his cold arms vigorously. "Got me. I would have liked to see the PKE reading on the things that got us. I'd bet they were more human than nether-entity. We...." He paused to cough as his dry throat closed up on him. "Sure wish we had some water."  
  
Egon continued watching the busy spider, but when he spoke, his voice was hard. "You were right, Peter. We shouldn't have split up on this case. It was a trap."  
  
"Yeah. And now I can die satisfied 'cause I was right." He stopped, sensing the withdraw of the other man, contrition softening his chisled features. "I didn't mean that against you, Egon. I'm just...." He threw his hands wide, a gesture of frustration.  
  
"I understand." The blond pursed his full lips, then turned to stare Peter directly in the face. "You would have won your bet. I wasn't captured by an apparition."  
  
Venkman cocked one dark brow. "No?"  
  
"No. This..." Egon pointed to the bruise on the tip of his chin. "...was from a human fist. I remember that much before blacking out."  
  
"Son of a...." Peter gave vent to a long, low whistle, green eyes sharpening with calculation. "So this could be a personal vendetta. No, wait a minute." He held up a hand. "I was captured by an N-E. No way that was a human being that grabbed me. Felt like one of those whatchamacallit's from Goizing dimensions."  
  
"That's Goizim." Then it was Spengler's turn to shrug. "Humans are involved at any rate." He hesitated, staring at his long, white fingers folded across his thigh. "Peter, we've been together nearly fifteen years. We've fought before, but we've never..."  
  
"...hated each other," Venkman finished for him. "I've been thinking about that, too." He stretched his legs, attempting to ease a cramp in his muscles. Egon watched him impassively, not moving at all until Peter rearranged his legs and fixed him with a clinical look. "How do you feel now, Egon?"  
  
The older man frowned. "I feel ... on edge, irritable, angry -- though not nearly as bad as before. And scared," he added, ruthlessly honest.  
  
Peter continued to regard the other with that professional detachment after which Egon had sought for days. "Your pupils are contracted, too."  
  
"Conclusion?"  
  
"I think we've been drugged." Peter smiled mirthlessly at the other's astonished expression. "Yeah, surprised me too. I've done extensive experimentation back at college with mood altering medication, and frankly, I can't think of anything else to account for what we've been through lately. We've all experienced identical elevations of stress, anger, loss of control, as well as having our own personal aggressions distended and distorted out of proportion. Winston's paranoia, for example, thinking that we were ganging up on him, or Ray's quickness to take offense."  
  
"Or my conceit." Egon grinned ruefully, easing the sharp planes of his face with merry lines. "I never dreamed I was such an egotist."  
  
"You're not." The psychologist returned the grin, more warmth in his expression than had been there all week. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, my friend. It was the drug which knocked it out of balance is all. It's obviously short acting," he went on after a minute. "The aggression is already starting to fade. Winston should be clear already."  
  
"I would have liked to see Winston again," the physicist mused wistfully. "And Janine." He broke off at a soft sigh from across the room. Ray muttered something indistinct and turned toward his friends, still asleep. "Do you think Ray is all right?" he asked instead.  
  
Peter bit his lip. "I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even ask. He picked up some collection of bruises though, didn't he?" The duo sat regarding their friend's swollen face and purpling arms silently, noting the discoloration on Ray's chest and stomach where the t-shirt had worked itself away from his pants. "Geez, between our hosts and me, we did a pretty good job painting him up."  
  
One blond brow rose, disappearing into the disordered mat of hair. "You?"  
  
"Yeah. Well..." Peter's lean cheeks colored. "We kind of mixed it up this morning ... yesterday morning, I mean." He rubbed absently at the contusions on his own throat. "I don't know who taught him to fight like that, but we nearly killed each other. I think his hand's broken," he added guiltily.  
  
Egon nodded without comment, then rose gracefully and dropped to one knee beside the still figure. "Ray," he called, shaking his friend's shoulder.  
  
Stantz came awake at once, brown eyes wide with alarm. "What is it?" he gasped, struggling to sit up.  
  
The older man restrained him with a hand on his chest. "It's all right. Nothing's happened."  
  
"Oh, boy." Stantz supported himself on one elbow, maintaining his half- upright position, turning his head in a quick scan of the barren room. "Hasn't anyone shown up at all?" He squirmed slightly under the steady stares directed his way. His eyes flashed, but his voice held nothing but exhaustion. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Hey, designer clothes, three squares, luxurious accommodations," Peter quipped, grinning mischievously. "What could be wrong?"  
  
A reluctant smile tugged at Ray's thin lips. "There's no TV," he pointed out in the same tone. "Or women."  
  
Drawing himself up with a horrified gasp, the brown haired Ghostbuster regarded his youngest colleague with awe. "Oh, gee-whiz! He said the 'w'- word! I think our little boy is growing up!"  
  
Ray laughed outright and even Egon had to smile. "You never change, do you?" the blond asked, shaking his head at the grinning psychologist. "A 30- something juvenile delinquent."  
  
Peter tipped his head. "You forgot astonishingly good looking."  
  
"Right." Still smiling, Egon turned back to Stantz. "How badly are you hurt, Ray?" he asked solicitously, laying a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder.  
  
Smile fading, the engineer glanced away guiltily. "I'm fine."  
  
Peter snorted. "Sure, Egon, didn't you know purple and swollen is the 'in' look this year?"  
  
Stantz' eyes flashed again. "Since when do you care...?" He stopped and lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."  
  
"We know." Egon gently shook the slumped shoulder he still gripped. "Peter thinks the reason we've been on edge so long is because we were drugged."  
  
Ray looked up, immediately interested. "Drugged? Then that's why I tried to...."  
  
"Yep." Peter nodded confirmation. "The effects seem to be cumulative, although it obviously passes quickly out of the body." He drew a pattern on the grimy floor. "I'd like to have a sample for analysis, though. There's no telling what, if any, long term effects we cold be dealing with." He looked up and winked at Ray. "Now, you want to be a good boy and let Egon check you out for warping, breakage or settling?"  
  
Ray sighed, then met Egon's sharp blue eyes earnestly. "I'm really fine, Egon. Just bruised. ... I think."  
  
Peter cast his glance to the heavens; Spengler only nodded. "I think so, too," he said, pushing Stantz down flat. "But I'd still like to check your ribs and stomach for internal injuries. And your hand, too, of course."  
  
Ray blushed. "I lost my temper. I'm sorry. I ... seem to be saying that a lot lately."  
  
"So am I." Egon yanked up the thin black t-shirt and gaped at the respectable collection of bruises and marks which ranged themselves across the young man's body. "My god, Raymond," he gasped, "did Peter do all of that?!"  
  
"Oh, man, Ray, I'm sorry," Peter stammered, coming to peer over the blond's shoulder.  
  
"Not your fault, Peter." Ray smiled, then winced when Egon pressed gently on one rib. "Ow! I fell down the stairs when I was captured. Most of this is from when I landed. I think."  
  
"You're thinking again," the psychologist groaned, sinking down the wall beside his friends. He rested his hand on Ray's shoulder, while the younger man patiently endured Egon's swift but thorough exam.  
  
When he was through, Spengler sat back, satisfied. "I think a couple of your ribs may be cracked," he pronounced at last, helping Stantz to sit up. "But other than that, you seem to be all right."  
  
"Told you," Ray said, awkwardly tucking his shirt into place.  
  
"Your hand is broken, though."  
  
Stantz cradled his hand in his lap, staring at the swelling abstractedly. "Heck. My own fault. I can live with it."  
  
"Oh, brother." Peter rolled his eyes again, but winked cheekily at the others. "With your permission, Dr. Stantz," he said, scooting over to lean against Ray's shoulder, "I'm freezing and you're one of the few sources of heat in this place. Not that you're much help," he added, giving the shivering man a poke.  
  
"Conserving body heat is a good idea, Peter." Egon sank down on Ray's other side, sliding close. "Perhaps we can eliminate some measure of the discomfort that way."  
  
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes, each drawing comfort from the others' nearness. Then Peter looked up and caught Ray's eyes on him -- or, more precisely, on his neck -- and there was regret in the clear, brown depths. Peter coughed self-consciously. "Ray," he began, simultaneously with Stantz', "Peter?"  
  
They both stopped, then Ray cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," he said simply, laying his left hand on his friend's arm. "I don't really want to hurt you. Honest."  
  
Peter captured the cold hand in his own and held tight, a warrior's clasp. "The only one I want to hurt, is the guy who did this to us," he growled.  
  
"Dream on, pal."  
  
This last was so unexpected, that the three Ghostbusters stared at each other for a long minute before realizing that the voice wasn't one of their own. As one, they rose and crowded around the iron-barred door. "Who are you?" Peter demanded of the behemoth that awaited them there.  
  
"You can call me Ali." Ali was a shaven-headed negro, tall, and clothed in a full length black robe that had obviously come from a cheep Halloween supply store. Powerful muscles rippled under the thin cloth, dispelling any hint of femininity the robe might otherwise have instilled. "Like the duds?" he asked, lifting arms the size of moderate tree trunks. "The boss thought they might set the mood fer ya. He made the boys here wear 'em, too." Flanking the big man stood two other shapes, draped also in robes but with a difference: beneath the hooded folds of the cowl, there were no faces to be seen, and skeletal hands peeked out of each sleeve.  
  
"Oooo-kay," Peter breathed. "That's some field crew you've got there. Dig 'em up yourself?"  
  
The black chuckled. "Very funny, Dr. Venkman. For that, you get to come with me first." Peter glowered but said nothing, craving that one chance at freedom this might present. Ali, sensing this, chuckled again. "Don't try it, kid. The dudes behind me are more than capable of taking you out -- even if I wasn't." He produced a set of keys and unlocked the cell door. "If you'll come with me...."  
  
"NOW!" Peter shouted, giving the door a shove that knocked Ali back against the wall. In a rush, both Egon and Ray were through the door, and it was as a unit the three rushed the two spectral figures, determination banishing the fatigue of 24 hours neglect. Unfortunately, in this instance determination was not enough.  
  
It took Ali a mere second to free himself of the door's constraints. With the speed of a snake, he reached out, catching Peter by the collar of his shirt as he went by, and using the man's own momentum to slam the off- balance psychologist into the wall. He then set upon him with his fists, delivering two powerful body punches that sent Peter sliding to the floor, gasping for breath.  
  
Ray and Egon were faring no better. The Goizim nether-entities were every bit as powerful as Ali had claimed. One picked Ray clear off his feet, holding him aloft before slamming him to the ground; the youngest Ghostbuster hit with a dull thud and lay stunned, watching helplessly while the second creature handled Egon. This was a different technique, however, closer to the one used on Venkman earlier. Great lengths of flowing silk reared up of their own accord, wrapping Egon in its shimmering depths from ankle to neck. The blond struggled vainly, but was unable to free himself as the material tightened its hold, choking off his breath. "Help...." he managed, then went limp.  
  
"Egon!" Ray forced himself into action once again, overcoming the pain of his abused body only by an act of will. He tore wildly at the restricting cloth, beating at the incorporeal captor with both fists to no avail. Egon continued to hang limply, face beginning to tinge with blue. Desperate, Ray turned to the laughing black man leaning against the wall. "Make them stop!"  
  
"He does look a little peaked, don't he?" the negro observed, stepping lightly over Peter to peer into Egon's face. "Hmmm, I'd say he was dying -- if someone were to ask me, that is."  
  
"Please...." Ray grasped the man's robe in a bunched fist. "Please make them stop! I'll do what you want...."  
  
Ali's eyes narrowed. He grasped Ray's wrist in a fierce grip and twisted, freeing his robe. "Then beg," the negro ordered. "Beg me, and I might save him."  
  
For Ray or any Ghostbuster, prioritizing companions over ego required no deliberation at all. He dropped to his knees, one hand raised in supplication. "Please," he asked humbly. "Don't let Egon die."  
  
Ali regarded the upraised face with astonishment. "You're not even ashamed to do this," he said, unfulfilled by the man's capitulation. He tangled his fingers in the auburn hair, pulling Ray's head back and up. "Are you?"  
  
"Egon...."  
  
"Bah!" Ali brought his open palm across and backhanded Stantz to the ground, noting with far more satisfaction Peter's furious growl at the action. "Didn't like that, did you, Venkman?" he said, all smiles again. "Good. I'll remember that." He turned back to his minions. "Let blondie go and lock these two back up in the cell. Your master will want them later." He waited until the door had been secured before courteously helping Peter to his feet. "Shall we go, Dr. Venkman?" he asked, gesturing the Ghostbuster to proceed him. "You have an appointment with my boss."  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

Janine had dutifully waited by her phone all night, even canceling a date with her sister's hairdresser's cousin to do so. Annoyance had turned to worry as the clock struck midnight, however, then worry to panic when dawn broke and there was still no sign of her prodigal employers. Calling the firehouse at 5am produced nothing but her own voice on the answering machine telling her that the boys were beddie-bye, she was powdering her nose, and if a person couldn't call during normal hours, they could darn well leave a message.  
  
Irritated, Janine slammed down the receiver. "Gonna change that tape first thing in the morning," she told Slimer, who had taken to staying at her apartment the last several days. She retrieved the phone almost instantly, dialing the police. The detective she talked to was polite but firm -- there was nothing official they could do until a victim had been missing at least 24 hours, but he would ask the Langston City Long Island police to drive by the address she'd supplied to check it out as a courtesy.  
  
Janine thanked him and hung up, then sweated out the next 45 minutes during which she mentally pictured a variety of massacre victims, all of them blond and wearing Ghostbusters uniforms. When the phone finally rang, she nearly had a heart attack on the spot.  
  
She took a deep breath, brushing their pet nether-entity back with one hand. "Ghostbusters.... I mean, Janine Melnitz here!"  
  
"Miss Melnitz, this is Detective Stone again."  
  
"Did you find them?" Janine asked, gathering her red fur robe closer around her..  
  
Stone hesitated. "We found their car, Miss Melnitz," he said slowly. "It was parked directly in front of 421 W. Stuyvescent. We found no sign of the Ghostbusters at all."  
  
"None?" Janine scrubbed at her eyes under her green glasses, wishing she'd had at least a nap last night. "How about holes in the wall, burn marks, or any signs that they'd fired off their proton packs?"  
  
"Nothing." The detective's voice was heavy with regret. "If you'd like to come in this afternoon and file a missing persons report...."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'll let you know. Thanks." Janine hung up, desperately worried. "Peter was afraid there was something to this job," she told a hovering Slimer. "It looks like he was right. C'mon, we're going to the office. I need to find Winston and fast."  
  
The black Ghostbuster, however, was no where to be found. Calls to his girlfriend went unanswered, and his parents could offer nothing but polite sympathy. They hadn't seen their son for over a week, and he hadn't then mentioned anything about his plans.  
  
"Oh, Winston, where are you?" At her own desk, Janine hunched over her fourth cup of coffee that morning, scared and depressed. "Where...?"  
  
"Yo, beautiful! What's happening?"  
  
That cheery baritone brought Janine to her feet in a bound. "Winston!" In a flash, she was around the desk and had thrown herself bodily into Zeddemore's arms, clutching his neck desperately. "Oh, Winston, I'm so glad to see you!"  
  
"I'm glad to see you, too, baby," Winston managed, astonished by the enthusiasm of her welcome. "I came to make peace with the guys. Are they around?"  
  
Janine released her choke hold and stepped back, dropping heavily into her chair. "They're in trouble, Winston, and the police can't find them and Peter left you this note and I know I'm never going to see Egon again!" With that, she burst into loud tears.  
  
Now confused as well as astonished, Winston accepted the folded missive and read its contents with a frown. "If Peter thought there was something fishy about this assignment, why'd he accept it?"  
  
"Why have the four of you been acting like jackasses all week?" Janine retorted, snatching a kleenex and dabbing at her eyes. "None of you have behaved like adults for days."  
  
invisible beneath his coloring, Winston had the grace to blush. "Yeah, I know. I don't understand it, Janine. It was as if all of us decided to get hateful all at once. I was going to ask Peter about it, but...." He broke off. "Have you notified the police yet?"  
  
"Well of course I have," Janine said, drawing herself up; she slumped again, sniffing into her tissue. "They found Ecto-1 in front of the house but no sign of the boys."  
  
"It's all I've got to start with, though." Winston sighed. "I have to borrow your car, Janine. I'm going to need a charged pack, traps, that extra PKE meter...."  
  
The secretary made some notes, feeling better already. If there was anything anyone could do, Winston would do it. She only hoped that it was going to be enough.  
  
***  
  
Meanwhile, Peter Venkman was being dragged unceremoniously up three stone steps, then down a rough-hewn tunnel no more than a score of feet long. He struggled furiously, but against superior strength and numbers he had no chance. All he received for his efforts was a sound thump from Ali and a reminder to "Mind your manners, sweetcheeks."  
  
Fuming, Peter subsided, biding his time and watching for his chance.  
  
The tunnel ended in a chamber roughly the dimensions of a good-sized den. Bare electric bulbs provided illumination by which to see, revealing more of the familiar stone walls, which were covered floor to ceiling with symbols Peter recognized from an old Bela Lugosi movie. A rough circle was carved into the center of the floor in which was positioned a great stone alter covered with what looked like dried blood at first glance but which smelled suspiciously of Tabasco. Peter regarded it all with apprehension, nonetheless.  
  
"So we meet again, Mr. Venkman."  
  
Peter stared around the seemingly empty chamber. Those silky tones were eminently familiar. "Walter Peck?"  
  
"In the flesh." The tall man stepped out of the shelter of several piled crates, delicately lifting his long scarlet robe to keep it out of the dust. Smiling cordially, he crossed to where an astonished Peter stood, still held fast in the grip of the two spectral guards. "How very good to see you again, Mr. Venkman. Especially considering the circumstances."  
  
Peter's voice was strong and steady, not a tremor betraying the dismay which filled him at the sight of a man who'd sworn revenge on them nearly four years past. He shook himself free of his unwelcome escorts and adopted a deliberately insouciant stance, looking the other up and down the way one might examine a giant pork chop. "I should have known it would take someone like you to set this up," he sneered, gesturing around the room. "Tacky, cheap, theatrical -- got you written all over it."  
  
"I'm glad you like it." Blue eyes twinkled, lending Peck a mischievous look. "I went to considerable time and expenditure to make it the 'homey' place it is today."  
  
"Environmental Protection Agency must be paying a lot better than it used to," the Ghostbuster commented, staring at the pseudo-altar with a frown. "Who's your decorator -- Vincent Price?"  
  
Walter Peck stroked his blond beard contentedly. "Actually, I did it myself. With a little help from my friends, of course."  
  
Peter cast a disapproving glance first at Ali, then at the nonhuman guards, finally ending back with their master. "Guess no one can get good help these days," he commiserated, folding his arms. "Now you want to, like, tell me what's going on here? Or do we have to wait for Fido to spill a few more crumbs?"  
  
Ali growled and raised a ham-sized fist. He stopped at Peck's negative gesture. "Later for you, whitebread," the big black man snarled, stepping back again.  
  
"Bow-wow." Peter deliberately turned his back on the fuming giant and stood eying the blond, dropping his hands to hips. "You were saying?"  
  
Thin lips cracked in an amused smile. "You're here, Dr. Venkman, because you have something I want."  
  
"A good tailor?" Peter guessed, tipping his head. "Great taste? A social life?" He turned, casually examining the room more thoroughly. "Where are we, anyway? Disneyland, this ain't."  
  
The blond followed his gaze. "We're exactly five meters from where you were captured. This grotto of mine is built directly under that charmingly mundane cottage you were admiring earlier."  
  
"I'll bet is's a real good selling point, too," the psychologist approved. "Second question -- why?"  
  
"No, no, Mr. Venkman." Peck shook back one flowing sleeve and studied his watch. "Your next question should be, what do I want."  
  
Peter shrugged. "What?"  
  
"Samhaine."  
  
Lean jaw dropping nearly to his breast, Venkman stared in horror from the grinning blond to his bald, dark-skinned servant. "Are you nuts?!" he blurted, recovering. "No, let me rephrase that. Do you have any idea what you're asking? Samhaine killed people first time he showed up. He almost killed me."  
  
"Oh, come now," Peck chided mildly. "Surely you're exaggerating just a bit?"  
  
"Uh-uh." The Ghostbuster shook his head, then lifted the skirt of one of the spectral escorts. A putrid black mist wafted toward him, and he dropped it hurriedly, gagging. "Uh ... no, I'm not exaggerating," he went on, regarding the larger men with no trace of levity. "Samhaine caused two train derailments, several buildings to collapse and mass panic. Four children were crushed to death in one hysterical stampede alone. There were more."  
  
"But what's he done lately?" jeered Ali from behind.  
  
Peter spun, so angry, the black man actually retreated a step. "Cooled his heels in my containment unit -- where he stays." He turned back to the impassive-faced Peck, who had not moved. "What do you want with him anyway? He's not exactly Greenpeace material, after all. And what's with the outfits? Halloween's not until October. This some new government thing?"  
  
"Not at all." The handsome Peck's face hardened, losing the smug smile he'd maintained since Peter's appearance. "The ancient techniques of dimensional breaching have been handed down through my family for a thousand years, Mr. Venkman -- even before they emigrated to Arkham. Why just recently, I was involved in an experiment which would have altered the laws of space-time all over the universe!"  
  
"Making goopers more substantial!" Peter exclaimed, suddenly understanding the problems they'd had at the museum the week before.  
  
Peck cast him a startled glance. "Uh, yes, exactly." He clenched one fist, asking suddenly, "Why do you think I tried to shut you down four years ago?"  
  
Peter blinked at the seeming non sequitur. "Lousy childhood?"  
  
"Wrong." The tall blond settled himself onto a nearby packing crate, arranging his robes comfortably. "Four years ago you Ghostbusters interfered in one of the most monumental projects I've ever been involved with -- bringing the Traveler through to earth."  
  
Peter goggled. "What do you mean you brought him through? I thought the whole thing was Gozer's idea?"  
  
His captor smiled. "Even the Ancient Ones require the proper invitation -- the summons -- and Gozer was no different. Did you know that his worshippers migrated to the British Isles five millennia ago? That's how my ancestor's came in contact with him."  
  
"Learn something new every day," Peter muttered.  
  
"Quite. Had I succeeded in summoning Gozer, I would have accessed a source of trans-dimensional power this world has never known." Peck fairly glowed at the possibility, then heavy lids came down to hood his pale eyes. "Until you banished Gozer from this plane forever."  
  
"Naughty thing to do, eh?" the psychologist asked, rising up onto his toes to peek down the guard's hood.  
  
"Hmmm." Peck fished about in his robes, emerging with a half empty pack of Salem's. He chose one for himself, then politely offered the pack. "Smoke?"  
  
"No, thanks," Peter answered just a politely, but there was a hardness to his voice that cut through the false urbanity like a knife. "So you switched from Summarian gods to Celtic?"  
  
"No, not switched." Peck lighted his cigarette and pulled on it with a sigh. "These things are going to kill me someday," he said with a cough.  
  
"Someday soon, I hope," Peter offered sweetly.  
  
Smoke drifted upward on a tiny draft. "Not soon enough to do you any good, I fear. But to get back to my subject, Gozer was a long shot at best. My main power source was, as you might have guessed, Samhaine."  
  
"Who is also doing you no good right about now." Losing interest in his eerie escort, Peter strolled aimlessly around the room, poking boxes and kicking crates with half-hearted curiosity.  
  
"Precisely." Peck rose, indicating the two attending phantoms with a wide sweep of his arms. "Look at my two servants, Mr. Venkman."  
  
Straightening his black shirt across his shoulders, Peter obliged. "Well, they're never gonna get green cards dressed like that, but otherwise...."  
  
"Two!" The blond dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with an angry stamp of his foot. "Two servants. No more than one year ago I could have summoned an army!" Pale cheeks purple with rage, and teeth clamping together, it was several minutes before he could continue. Through it all, Ali watched impassively.  
  
"It grows harder to open a dimensional portal by myself, and cut off from the other worlds upon which I draw, my own abilities are growing more limited even as we speak. I need my patron, Mr. Venkman." Peck settled himself on the upended crate again, in full control of himself once more. "I need Samhaine." He paused. "You are a business man; I could make this worth your while...." He broke off at Peter's incredulous glare. "No, perhaps not. Very well, we'll do this the hard way."  
  
Peter gulped. "The hard way?"  
  
Ali leaned over Peter's shoulder, his breath hot and stale. "My way."  
  
"Oh." Peter gave vent to a heartfelt sigh. "I just knew it was going to be one of those days."  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter 9

The unearthly guards dumped Ray back into the cell, casually tossing Egon in after him. Ray lay where he'd fallen for some minutes before finding the strength to roll over and examine his surroundings. Red trickled from a split lip, courtesy of Ali's little parting tap. Down the corridor, he could hear Peter bellowing and fighting, but the sound was soon muffled then lost.  
  
"Peter." Ray moaned softly, then turned his attention to the second of his partners, who was even now beginning to regain consciousness. "Egon?"  
  
No answer. Spengler lay on his stomach, face turned into the dirty floor, unmoving and silent. Ray pulled himself to his friend's side, carefully turning the man over onto his back. "Egon, can you hear me?"  
  
A low groan was the only reply, but any sign of life was better than none at all. Ray lifted the blond head in his one good hand and settled it against his knee out of the dirt. As an afterthought, he straightened his friend's glasses, settling the red rims more firmly on the man's long nose.  
  
Spengler groaned again at the movement, and opened his eyes, blinking up at his colleague with a puzzled air. "What...?"  
  
"Take it easy. You're safe now." Ray patted the blond hair once, not taking his eyes from Egon's. "I ... thought you were dead," he whispered, more to himself than the other.  
  
Spengler blinked again, this time as memory flooded back. "P-Peter?" he panted, lifting his head and looking around. "Is he....?"  
  
"They took him." Again using only his good hand, Ray helped the blond to sit up, bracing him with an arm around the lean shoulders. "Are you okay?  
  
The older man nodded, forcing himself more erect. "I seem to be relatively undamaged," he said, purposely quoting something he heard in an old Star Trek episode. "Are you?"  
  
"Me?" Stantz looked away. "I wasn't the one who got dragged away to be tortured, or..." He paused, swallowing. "...or the one who almost died here a minute ago. Yeah, I'm just terrific."  
  
Egon took a deep breath, holding it until the oxygen rich blood had wiped away some of the cobwebs misting his brain. He leaned back, allowing Ray to support some of his weight until the younger man began to sag as well. "Use the wall," he ordered, sliding back and pulling the other with him. "Or we'll end up flat on our faces."  
  
Once safely ensconced against solid rock, both men leaned their heads back, eyes closed against the imagined horror they were sure was taking place in the next chamber. It was Egon who finally broke the minutes -- eons? -- long silence by clearing his throat. "Raymond?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"I...."  
  
The older man trailed off uncertainly, something so unprecedented in the assured scientist that Ray cracked open one eye at once. "What is it?"  
  
The blond head lifted away from the wall and turned to give his companion a long look. "You saved my life," he said at last. "Thank you."  
  
Ray turned his face away, preferring to stare at the barred door rather than those piercing blue eyes so close to his own. "Forget it."  
  
Egon's eyes narrowed; that single terse phrase had been more plea than acknowledgement. Sympathy softened the harsh angles of his face -- sympathy and gratitude. "I'll forget it," the physicist offered softly, "when you can."  
  
He received a single, startled glance and a far too casual shrug. "At least you're alive," Ray commented defensively, as though expecting censure. Again the innocent door became the recipient of a hard stare. "Peter might not be."  
  
The physicist scratched his cheek thoughtfully, nails rasping on the unshaven skin. "If all they wanted was to kill us, I doubt our mysterious captors would have waited until now to do so."  
  
"But what could they want?" Ray demanded, making to smash his left fist into his right and thinking better of it at the last minute. "What could they possibly want from us?"  
  
***  
  
"Samhaine," Peck said persuasively, finger-combing his neatly trimmed beard, "is surely not worth what you're about to suffer, is he? He bent at the waist to peer more closely at Peter, who was now sitting on a second upended crate secured by skeletal hands.  
  
Peter pulled desperately away from his captors, but their grip was too strong. With his arms twisted behind him and held at the wrist, and his ankles likewise secured, he had no choice but to stiffen his spine and meet that smug face with a cocky smirk of his own. "On the open market, I doubt he'd bring in more than a couple of bucks," he said, "but I'd sure hate to break up the set."  
  
"Set?" Peck asked puzzledly.  
  
"Samhaine, Lourdaine, a couple of other -aine's...."  
  
"You have Lourdaine as well?" Peck frankly gawked at that, startled out of his customary poise. "That's why my time-space experiments failed! I didn't even realize he'd disappeared from the Triune." He made a disgusted noise. "Another example of how weak my techniques have grown since losing my patron."  
  
"Triune?" Peter echoed hollowly. "There's three of them? Uh-oh."  
  
Ali watched this exchange with an amused grin, alternately tossing then catching a wicked looking commando knife by its hilt. It sailed high into the air, sparkling where the light touched its metal blade, then dropping earthward to be caught securely in a massive chocolate hand. "I used ta be the best cutter in Brooklyn Heights," he told Peter, flicking the blade again.  
  
"It's so nice to meet a man who takes pride in his work," Peter commented acidly, eyes drawn involuntarily to the blade.  
  
Ali grinned again and pinched his cheek. "Told you we'd rumble my way, cutie."  
  
"Cutie?!" Peter regarded the six foot, three inch black Hercules with disbelief. "Cutie?"  
  
"Just a little term I picked up in the pen, kiddo," the negro replied, dropping the knife onto a small side table set up next to the make-shift chairs. The table held several objects ranging from assorted blades and knives to more obscure objects Peter had no name for and even less desire to experience.  
  
Peck reseated himself on his own crate, continually combing his beard and mustache in a gesture the psychologist was beginning to detest. "I'm asking you again, Mr. Venkman: will you release Samhaine?"  
  
Peter tugged one final time at his captive wrists then gave up and affected a casual air. "How do you get old Pumpkin Puss to cooperate, anyway?" he asked, stalling. "He's not exactly a people person, if you know what I mean."  
  
Peck smiled indulgently. "Samhaine is more than simply the originator of Halloween," he said, tapping the psychologist familiarly on the thigh. "He is one of the Ancient Ones and is more than willing to cooperate with man -- provided the proper recompense is made, of course."  
  
"R-recompense?"  
  
"Slaves, Mr. Venkman," Peck intoned. "Human slaves ... and lives. The facilities in Arkham are not quite so theatrical as this."  
  
Jaw dropping again, Peter could only gape. "But that's murder!"  
  
Peck widened his smile. "Why so it is," he chuckled. "And that makes me a murderer many times over. But what are a few pitiful lives compared to the power I can access in Goizim's plane?"  
  
"You...!" Peter broke off and frowned as a new thought presented itself. "Were you the one who drugged us?"  
  
The other's blue eyes widened. "You figured that out? You're full of surprises today. But, yes, I doctored your food supply." He smoothed the red material again, pursing his lips at a wrinkle in the cheap material. "I should have stuck with a business suit. At any rate, Mrs. Venkman, as a team the four of you were far too difficult to capture with my reduced resources. I've watched you for months now, even set up several of your so- called busts myself to create an opportunity. Unfortunately, that opportunity never materialized and I was forced to resort to more direct means." He sighed. "It really is a good thing you decided to give in now; this house was the last card up my sleeve." He lifted his full robes to demonstrate. "Normally, I would have never risked bringing suspicion to my own door."  
  
"Drug wears off fast, doesn't it?" Peter asked, professionally interested despite himself.  
  
"Necessarily." The former member of the Environmental Protection Agency seemed perfectly willing to discuss the matter. "I could hardly expect you to be malleable enough to agree to any of my demands if you're drugged into a state of permanent aggression, could I?"  
  
"Heaven forbid," Peter growled. "Hey, if you were already in our headquarters, why didn't you just release Samhaine yourself instead of going through all of this? Those 'abilities' of yours..."  
  
"...are not sufficient to overcome your security systems. The laser scan ID was quite beyond me, I fear." Blue eyes gleamed cruelly in the artificial light. "Besides, we had a score to settle, and you know what they say about revenge being a better dish served cold." He fished inside an old black bag at his feet, pulling out a vial filled with a dull reddish powder. "I have spent my entire life studying the ancient tomes, experimenting with substances forbidden by humanity a thousand years ago."  
  
"Yeah, and look where it go you," his prisoner quipped irrepressibly.  
  
"You got a problem with that?" Ali asked from his position behind Peter's seat.  
  
"Problem? Uh, no." Venkman swallowed nervously, his eyes never leaving the vial. "I'm not going to like that, am I?"  
  
Peck uncapped the vial. "As a psychologist, I'm sure you'll be fascinated. As you're undoubtedly aware, there are some chemicals which free the mind from conscious control, making it more pliant and open to suggestion." He shook out a pinch, holding it delicately in the palm of his hand. "Don't fear, this is only a demonstration dose." He blew it gently into Peter's face, murmuring, "You're in hell, Dr. Venkman."  
  
And Peter screamed.  
  
***  
  
"How long have they had him?" Ray asked yet again. He paced the cell with long, nervous strides, his bare feet making little slapping sounds on the rough stones. "What could they be doing to him?"  
  
"I don't know," Egon replied patiently. "There's no good speculating without data, anyway."  
  
Ray told him pithily what he could do with his data.  
  
Egon blinked. "I don't believe I've ever heard you use language like that before."  
  
"I ... don't think I ever have." A slow flush burned in Ray's cheeks. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I don't think it's anatomically possible anyway," the blond returned, winning a smile. He patted a spot on the floor at his side. "Come on, sit down. If you burn yourself out now, you won't be any use to us later."  
  
Reluctantly, the engineer obeyed, settling back against the cold wall. "You sound like my mother," he complained, laying his broken hand carefully across his lap. "She used to say the exact same thing whenever I got excited about anything. It never helps, you know."  
  
"I know." Egon began to draw in the dust again. The floor was by now criss- crossed with dozens of numbers and formulae.  
  
Ray watched absently, his mind automatically converting his partner's theory into its logical application. "If that's an ion destabilizer you're working on," he said after several minutes, "it won't work."  
  
Egon looked up, startled out of his concentration. "Why won't it work?"  
  
"Because of that." Stantz pointed to the second of a long string of equations next to Egon's left foot. "Channelling enough power to get that effect is going to melt any type of construction material we have. You'd end up plasmatizing your focussing agent before the target disintegrated."  
  
"Rats." Spengler abandoned his doodles and settled back against the wall, sliding over until he could lean against Ray's cold shoulder. "So," he said when the silence had stretched long enough to become oppressive, "I sound like your mother, do I?"  
  
"Not really." Ray pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped one arm around them, careful to neither jar his broken hand nor lose contact with Egon. "Just something she used to say a long time ago. I wish you could have met her," he added inconsequentially. "She was a nice lady."  
  
"I wish I had as well." The physicist leaned his head back on the stone, automatically adjusting his glasses to allow for the new angle. "Was she anything like your Aunt Lois?"  
  
"Naw. Lois was Dad's aunt." Stantz smiled gently, for a single instant transported away from their filthy cell to happier, sunnier climes. "Mom was little and pretty and smart. Dad made her take care of all the bills and stuff so that when they were killed...." He broke off. "I-I wonder if I'll get to see them again, after...."  
  
"I don't want to hear it," Egon interrupted in a flat, hard voice. "I will not accept that there is no way out. I.... What was that?!"  
  
"Peter! That was Peter's scream!" Stantz was on his feet in a flash and pressing his face against the barred door in a vain attempt to see farther down the corridor. "Peter? PETER!" His yell didn't even echo in the cramped confines of the underground tunnel. It filled the room and then was gone, swallowed by the unyielding stone. "PETER!" he yelled again with no more response. "What are they doing to him?" he sobbed in an agony of frustration.  
  
Egon laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, and there was no way to tell who was trembling harder. "I don't know," he said grimly, "but I've got a feeling we're going to find out."  
  
***  
  
Fifteen meters due up, Winston had concluded his search of the house and was now sprawled dispiritedly on the living room couch rethinking his options. The PKE meter he carried gave him the same readings Egon hd gotten earlier, i.e., an even distribution of parapsychic energies, but lacking any specific focus. As this meant nothing to the non-scientist, he'd sadly restowed the meter and cast about for another line of investigation, coming up blank.  
  
"Where could they be, Slimer?" he asked the faintly glowing mass hovering just overhead. He held up one brown skinned hand, ticking off the points one by one. "Ecto's outside, so they must have been here, yet the house is intact; no burn marks anywhere. Obviously, they never had a chance or reason to fire off their throwers."  
  
Slimer held up his own hand, following suit. "Onnne ... twooo...."  
  
Winston blew his cheeks out in a sigh. "There has to be a clue here somewhere," he decided, getting to his feet. "I'm going to search the house again until I find it." He trudged for the stairs leading towards the second floor. "You coming?"  
  
Whining softly and flitting about the room like a puff of green smoke, the green nether-entity shook his nubbin of a head. "Kitchen," he announced hopefully. "Hungry."  
  
The Ghostbuster smiled. "Guess this is the longest you've ever gone without food, isn't it, little buddy? Okay, you search the fridge and if you see anything suspicious, yell."  
  
"Okay, Winstonnn!" Slimer agreed happily, disappearing down a hall.  
  
Zeddemore watched the little ghost go with a spark of amusement lighting his face. Then he hefted his proton rifle, drew the PKE meter out again and began to search the house for the second time that day.  
  
*** 


	10. Chapter 10

The slumped figure on the box uttered a low moan, the first sound to come from Peter Venkman in some minutes. Green eyes flickered then opened, gazing blankly at first, finally lighting on the white knuckled fist clenched in his lap. He moaned again, a small tortured sound almost beneath the thresholds of audibility. "My ... hands," he croaked over and over, "My hands ... my...."  
  
Peck tapped smoldering ash off of his cigarette, then dropped the butt onto the ground. "I think Mr. Venkman is sufficiently convinced that I mean business," he told the grinning negro at his shoulder. "Invite one of the others to join us. Which one do you suggest?"  
  
Ali grinned even wider. "Blondie's pretty stone faced," he said, drawing on the predatory instincts of a long-term prison denizen. "It may take some time to get a good reaction out of him, but I think you'll get plenty if you use that other kid. Sweetcheeks here didn't like it when I belted him earlier." He sniggered. "Ya think maybe they got something going?"  
  
Peck pursed his lips, waving one well-manicured hand disapprovingly. "Don't be vulgar, Ali," he chided. "At least not during business hours. Bring Dr. Stantz then, and be quick about it. I only gave Venkman a sample dose and I think he's already starting to come out of it."  
  
"Right." Ali disappeared with one of the inhyuman attendants, the miasma of an open grave swirling in their wake. He returned within minutes with Ray Stantz, one guard on each arm. This was not, as one might suppose, to encourage him along; rather Ray had been so frantic to reach Peter that he'd precipitated himself through the cell door the moment it had been opened. Unrestrained, he would have beaten his escorts to the main chamber by a good margin.  
  
"Peter!" Stantz yanked himself free of Ali's half-hearted grip and flung himself to Venkman's side. He batted wildly at the skeletal hands holding the psychologist erect until they fell away. Bereft of support Peter slid from the chair, and only Ray's hasty grab prevented him from impacting the stone floor face first. "Peter?" Ray lay his friend down, checking him carefully for injury. Barring some scattered cuts and bruises from earlier, there were none. He took one of Peter's hands, chafing it gently with his thumb. "Peter, can you hear me?"  
  
The darker man whimpered, tugging at the light grip. "My hands.... Oh, my hands...."  
  
"What?" Stantz lifted the fine-boned hand he was gripping, turning it over to check the palm. Nothing. "Peter, there's nothing wrong with your hands," he said soothingly, getting no response. His expression hardened and he shifted his attention to the tall, fair man regarding the friends with undisguised satisfaction. "Who are you," he demanded. "And what have you done to Peter?"  
  
Ali sniggered; Peck merely nodded. "You made a good choice, Ali," the fair man approved. "This might be a simpler task than I'd imagined." Addressing Ray, he went on, "I'm disappointed you don't recognize an old friend, Dr. Stantz -- a very old friend. As for this..." He gestured towards Peter's weakly twitching form. "...a minor demonstration only." Louder, "Mr. Venkman, you're fine now."  
  
Peter immediately fell limp. "Oh, man," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "Totally bad trip." He opened his eyes wide, pulling his hand free of Ray's and raising them both to his face. "My hands are ... okay?"  
  
"Just a sample of my abilities," their captor gloated proudly. "You Ghostbusters believe yourselves to be so invulnerable, but a single pinch of my powders is enough to send you away for several minutes. A full strength dose -- a single word from me..." He waved his hand, gesturing wide. "...and you return to the hellfires of your own mind forever."  
  
Peter shuddered and drew himself into a ball, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. "No," he moaned. "No more."  
  
"Then perhaps you're ready to do as I ask," the blond advised, "and release Samhaine."  
  
"Samhaine?" Ray stared at the robed man in shock. "You don't honestly expect us to release him, do you? You must be crazy!"  
  
Ali reached across and casually slapped the engineer to the ground. "You wanna try and be a little more respectful when you talk to the boss," he suggested, his very nonchalance an insult.  
  
Ray pulled himself up but didn't reply, drawn as he was by a weak voice calling his name. "Yes, Peter?"  
  
"You ... can't do what they ask." Venkman's voice was weak, his eyes still glazed with shock, but there was no mistaking the steel which lent his normally droll tenor the whip of command. "I saw some of the bodies left over from Samhaine's first visit -- the children...."  
  
"I won't help them, Peter." Ray lacked the conspicuous steel of the other man, though not his courage; his promise was solemn, his resolve every bit as firm. "I ... saw the children, too." Twin gazes of stony defiance impaled the berobed men in unison, solid in their refusal.  
  
Rather than being angered, Peck took the resistance in commendable stride, Ali even breaking out into a harsh bark of laughter. "Aren't they just too macho?" the blond jeered, deliberately lisping the phrase. He gestured to one of his extra-terrestrial minions. "Another small demonstration, and then we get serious." Heedless of Peter's frantic protests, two skeletal hands grabbed Stantz from behind, twisting his arms behind his back until he could neither struggle nor move without tearing them out of their sockets. "What is your hell, Dr. Stantz?" Peck wondered aloud, as Ray was forced to his knees before him. "Ali, didn't you say our young friend had no qualms about begging you earlier?"  
  
"None." Ali shook his head in disgust. "Guy's got no self-respect at all."  
  
Peck considered, sifting a pinch of his reddish powder out into the palm of his hand. "You'd make a lousy psychologist, Ali," he chided, settling the vial back into one volumous pocket. "It's not a lack of self-respect which allows a man to humiliate himself for another. Only the strongest of friendships could permit that. Love, Ali," he explained to the puzzled black. "I assume you have at least a passing acquaintance with the word?"  
  
"Oh." Ali brightened. "I loved someone once. Had to kill her, though; did three years on that one."  
  
"I'm not a bit surprised." Without warning, Peck leaned forward, puffing the reddish dust into Ray's skewed up face. "Your friends are dead, Raymond, and it's all your fault. They died hating you -- and you're alone forever."  
  
He stepped back as Ray collapsed, hanging limply from the entity-s supporting arms. "Let's see what happens to a man when love and friendship are stripped away. What happens to a man when his soul is gone?"  
  
"Ray," Peter began, struggling to a sitting position.  
  
"Silence!" Peck jabbed a long forefinger in Venkman's direction. "Say another word and I kill him now." Peter subsided, glowering; Peck snapped his fingers and the guard released Stantz, spilling him haphazardly to the floor, where he lay unmoving for some minutes.  
  
"I hope we're gonna see something," Ali complained, prodding the still figure with his toe. "He ain't doing nothing but layin' there."  
  
"Patience, Ali." The bearded man settled himself onto his crate and crossed his legs again. "I'm sure it takes a little longer to function when you no longer have a reason for doing so. Look at his face."  
  
Peter gritted his teeth, fighting the double urges that were all too manifest in his face. The first was to get up off the floor and batter the two leering men above him into plant food. The second and strongest was to do anything -- anything -- which would wipe away what he saw in the expressive planes of Ray's features. Sorrow so deep it was a physical pain clouded the clear brown eyes, grief wiping away sight and sound. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but he made no move to turn his face or to brush them away, shame holding no portion in Ray Stantz' newly damned soul.  
  
"No...." Peter moaned, quelling instantly at the sharp look Peck directed his way.  
  
"Not yet, Mr. Venkman," the fair man chided. "Things are just starting to get interesting."  
  
Ray sat up slowly, seemingly not noticing that it was his broken hand he was using for support. The tears flowed faster and more freely, catching on the auburn hair dusting his cheeks before falling away. Peck had said he was alone, so alone he was, with that wrenching loneliness which depended nothing on solitary existence. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whimpered, oblivious to Venkman's presence. "Egon ... I'm sorry ... I'm sorry." He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, for a long time. Eventually he looked up, eyes settling on the small stand bearing Peck's equipment. "Please...." he whispered, crawling toward it.  
  
Ali made a motion in Ray's direction, but Peck stopped him with a gesture, shaking his head and pointing.  
  
Ray reached the table and examined it interestedly, brushing aside instruments and vials with indiscriminate abandon. He hesitated over the commando knife Ali had handled earlier, but selected instead a long, razor edged scalpel from its tray.  
  
"Self mutilation?" Ali wondered. Peck shrugged.  
  
Ray sat on the floor examining the scalpel from all angles. He turned it over and over, fascinated by the sparks of laser light thrown off its silvered edge, mesmerized by the daub of blood which appeared on his thumb when he tested the blade. Through it all, the tears continued to fall unchecked.  
  
Minutes passed during which Stantz did not move; Ali began to fidget. "Look, can't we...." and that was when Ray acted. Moving with slow deliberation, he raised the knife, bringing it down onto his exposed right wrist and slashing deep. Skin and muscle parted beneath that keen blade until there was only the stark whiteness of bared bone.  
  
"Oh, no," Peter breathed, forcing himself shakily to his feet. "That's enough, Peck! That's enough! Bring him out of it!"  
  
Peck regarded the weakened Ghostbuster with patent condescension. "You're forgetting yourself, Mr. Venkman," he began dangerously. "Still, perhaps it is enough for your second -- and final -- demonstration." He slipped from his seat, stooping to peer into Ray's clouded brown eyes. Reaching out, he grasped the engineer's left arm, stopping the man's pathetic attempt to transfer the knife into his right hand doubtless to finish the job of ending his own life. "You can hear us now, Dr. Stantz," Peck enunciated clearly, giving Ray a shake. "You're back. You can see us--"  
  
"We're not dead!" Peter shouted, elbowing the man rudely out of the way. He knelt, taking his friend's face in both hands and tilting it upward until he could make eye contact. "R-Ray...." He trailed off, biting back a cry of his own as his fingers cramped in remembered agony. The illusion of the flames had been too real, the pain to raw, for him to truly accept the fact that his flesh had not actually melted away like wax. Gamely he fought the pain, controlling his voice with difficulty. "You're not alone, Ray," he repeated more softly. "I'm here." He held on as the other man cringed away, but Peter did not allow him to escape. "I'm here."  
  
Slowly Ray's eyes began to focus, centering by necessity on the familiar face so close "P-Peter?"  
  
"Yeah, it's me," Venkman acknowledged, dredging up a smile. "You okay, pal?"  
  
"Peter." The brown eyes continued to stare, lighting from within with a joy so profound that Peter actually flinched beneath it. Stantz brought up his left hand to gently touch Venkman's beard-shadowed cheek, wiping away tears the psychologist hadn't even been aware of shedding. "You're alive?" he asked wonderingly. "Really?"  
  
"Yeah, buddy. Really." Peter winced as another spasm worked its way through his fingers, but he held on to his smile and wrapped his friend in tight, protective arms. "I'm here."  
  
Ray returned the embrace, hanging onto the other man as though Peter might vanish if he let go even for an instant. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered, turning his face into the front of Venkman's shirt. "I'm so sorry."  
  
The psychologist shot Peck a hard look; the blond shrugged. "It does take a finite amount of time for the drug to wear off, you know."  
  
Peter turned away, laying his cheek against Ray's hair and closing his eyes. Despairing and afraid, he could only hold his shivering friend tightly and lift up the forlorn prayer that the end, when it came, would be quick for them both.  
  
***  
  
Winston proceeded on his third and final tour of the big house, checking each nook and crevice with impartial care. The results added up to the same total as before: exactly zero. If Peter, Ray and Egon had ever been here, they had left not so much as a single clue behind. During the entire search, Slimer remained close by Winston's side, popping in and out of walls and furniture and alternately chattering and wailing to himself -- garbled, nearly unintelligible sounds that Zeddemore paid little attention to, if at all.  
  
The top-to-bottom search came to an end in the basement. The various boxes stored there yielded no information to the questing Ghostbuster, and finally he was forced to concede the hunt a failure. Disheartened, he upended a crate and sat down, while Slimer floated two feet above his head.  
  
"Nothing." Winston fished into several pockets, locating a pack of Juicy Fruit and selecting a stick. The green N-E hovered closer, looking interested, and Winston handed over the rest of the pack. "Where could they be, Slimer?" he asked, chewing thoughtfully. "There's no sign of a struggle, no blood -- thank goodness -- and no burns on the walls or floor. Whatever happened, it doesn't seem to have been violent." Slimer finished examining the pack of gum, then popped the whole thing, wrappers and all, into his huge maw. "PKE meter isn't much help, either," the human went on. "I'm getting a reading, but nothing I can pinpoint. I'm not even sure this place had a gooper problem at all."  
  
"Goopies heeere," Slimer piped up, nearly losing his gum. "My kind and worse."  
  
"Not to mention...." The meaning behind the reedy falsetto took a moment to penetrate. "What did you say?"  
  
"Worse." The little being hovered closer, quivering like jello. "Big worse. Baaaaad."  
  
"How do you know that?" Winston asked, maintaining as neutral a tone as he was capable to avoid alarming his companion back into unintelligibility.  
  
"Feeel them." Slimer quivered again and closed the distance between himself and the human, wrapping one sticky hand around Winston's arm. "Afraid, Winston."  
  
"There's nothing to be afraid of while I'm here." Zeddemore patted the hand lightly, wiping the viscous residue that instantly coated his fingers off onto his blue uniform. "Can you tell me where the big worse is, Slimer?"  
  
The little entity considered, using Winston's neck as a pivot to examine the room from all directions. "Heeere," he crooned, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Close."  
  
"Where, Slimer?" Winston twisted around until he could peer earnestly into the big orange eyes now no more than six inches above his head. "Peter might be with the big worse -- Peter and the others. Can you tell me where?"  
  
Slimer considered again. The mention of Peter and the others gave him the courage to release Winston's arm and float nearer the concrete wall on the north side of the basement. He paused, staring at it intently for thirty seconds. "Heeere," he said at last, growing transparent with fear. "Baad. Heeere." As it to emphasize his point, Slimer oozed slowly through the wall, reappearing almost instantly. "Room."  
  
"There's a room in there?" Winston left his box-seat and crossed the basement, hunkering down to run a calloused hand along the junction between wall and floor. He rose onto one knee and then to his feet, tracing a single, nearly invisible crack upwards. "I think this is a door, Slimer!" he said, excitement quickening his pulse. He pulled his particle thrower and switched on his pack, exhilarating as he always did in the steady whine of leashed power. "Slimer, go back through the wall and see if you can find anything resembling a switch or lever that will open this door. If I have to blast it open, I'll alert everyone in there. But don't be seen."  
  
"Uh-hun! Uh-huh!" Slimer bobbed several times, his version of agreement, and popped through the wall again, while Winston carefully examined his side of the barrier. It had been over a day and a half now since his partners had disappeared, and Winston's gut knotted when he considered all of the things which could have happened in that long a time. One thing he did know: if Peter, Ray and Egon were in there, Winston was going to get them out. One way or the other, he was going to bring his friends home.  
  
***  
  
Egon stood staring through the barred door long after Ray had disappeared down the hall. His expression was carefully neutral, but the blue eyes betrayed his own fear and apprehension for his friends -- and himself. That they were going to die was something he now believed fully; if he'd had any doubts on the subject, Peter's harsh scream had dispelled them completely. And now that their captors had taken Stantz away, Egon was left alone with nothing but his concern for the two younger members of the team to divert him from the fears regarding his own life.  
  
After awhile, Spengler sighed and moved away from the door, ambling aimlessly about the little cell in an effort aimed at restoring some warmth to his frozen extremities. His feet were nearly numb, but they couldn't compare to the ice which was twisting his gut into knots. Peter and Ray were in the hands of kidnappers with access to supernatural or paranatural forces. Egon knew from experience that these forces would not be friendly to anyone even remotely connected to the team; having actual Ghostbusters in their control....  
  
He shuddered and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. "Thinking about what is happening to Peter and Raymond is counterproductive," he admonished himself sternly. "I must focus my thoughts on escape."  
  
Far easier said than done, even considering the iron will of the physicist. Peter's single scream still echoed endlessly in his thoughts, filling him anew with dread. Frustrated beyond endurance, Egon slapped one concrete wall, wincing at the pain which ran up his arm. "Swell," he muttered, no less frustrated but now also smarting. "Bust your hand, genius." That thought brought another, close on its heels: Ray sitting hunched on the floor cradling his own broken hand. He'd not complained about it once, Egon remembered; had, in fact dismissed it as his own fault and said not a word else about it. Egon sank down beside the latest batch of equations he'd drawn in the dust and traced one with his finger -- the one Ray had pointed out as unworkable only minutes before.  
  
"Ray," he groaned aloud, "Peter...." He stopped, eyes hardening. "There has to be a way out of this. Something ... anything!" He scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, crawling about on all fours, then stretching up to his full height to test every inch of stone individually. His only reward for such painstaking thoroughness was a single rusty nail which may have lain there for years half covered in dust. He picked it up and, grimacing with effort, bent it into an S-shape. "I'm no cat burglar," he murmured, eying the door thoughtfully, "but the principle behind a lock can't be too difficult to decipher."  
  
Thus cheered at the prospect of some form of activity, Egon set to work on the door, praying all the while that, even if he could escape, he would not be too late to help his friends.  
  
*** 


	11. Chapter 11

"At a rough estimate," Peck observed drolly, "I'd say he's got about fifteen minutes before he bleeds to death. Of course, I'm no expert."  
  
Peter let out a surprised yelp, only now becoming aware of the warm, sticky fluid dribbling down his back where Ray was clutching him. He pulled back out of Stantz' grip, not entirely relinquishing his own hold around the other man's shoulders. "The lady in red is right," he quipped with as much spirit as he could muster under the circumstances. "We've got to stop that bleeding." Ray said nothing, merely tangled his fingers into the thin cotton of Peter's t-shirt and held on, ignoring the blood which was even now forming a pool around his knees. Venkman patted him absently then began to scan the room, alert for anything which would serve as a bandage. He was just reaching for his own shirt when Peck proffered a small towel from the stand.  
  
"Use this," the blond suggested, pinching his nostrils between thumb and forefinger. "It's cleaner."  
  
Peter scowled but accepted the length of cloth without comment. He wrapped it once around Ray's mangled wrist, tying it as tightly as he could. It soaked through quickly, dying the white terry crimson. "I'm going to have to tie a tourniquet around your arm," Peter said, watching the spreading stain with dismay. "You sure did a number on yourself, pal." He tugged up his t-shirt intending to pull it off; Ray's grip tightened, giving him pause. "Ray." the psychologist spoke gently, as though to a child; he pried at the other's fingers, attempting to dislodge their grip. "You've got to let go."  
  
Still Stantz said nothing, but he permitted Venkman to pull the shirt free. Ray's eyes were wide and panicked and never once left the psychologist's taut face.  
  
Peter pulled off his shirt, swaying when the action caused the room to spin suddenly. Blood rushed in his ears; shock, he realized in surprise, and only a sudden hand on his arm provided focus until the room settled into its normal, immobile configurations. "Moved too fast," he apologized with a wan smile.  
  
Peter busied himself tying the second cloth higher than the first, pulling it tight and then knotting it with a flourish. "I'm afraid this is going to have to do for now," he said, checking the bandage again. "You're going to need a couple of stitches on that sucker." At least, he added silently, sickened by the memory of the bare bone and torn flesh. Task done, the psychologist wavered again, slumping suddenly as his own strength evaporated in a rush. That drew a response from Stantz.  
  
"Peter? Please.... Are you all right?"  
  
Venkman drew a deep breath, expelling it slowly and with great care as several nasty bruises on his ribcage protested. "I think you should ask old Walt that question," he said sourly. "What about it, Walt? Am I all right?"  
  
Peck smiled and straightened from his casual slump. He'd watched every movement the two Ghostbusters had made with great interest, missing none of the subtle by-play of their easy friendship. "Yes, Ali," he murmured, "a very good choice." To Peter, he said, "To answer your question, you'll be fine provided you agree to do exactly as I ask."  
  
"Release Samhaine," Ray breathed, staring at the fair man again. "I... do know you, don't I?"  
  
"Oh, you know me." Peck rose and stood surveying the pale, dirty, exhausted pair huddled together at his feet. "You know me quite well, Raymond. I've been more than patient..."  
  
"Far more," Ali interjected with a sniff.  
  
"...but my patience is now gone. You will agree to my terms now or one of you dies. Dr. Spengler may be far more tractable when he sees the dead body of one of his best friends." He considered the two thoughtfully, looking from Ray to Peter and back again, stroking his short beard all the while. "I think it will be you who dies first, Mr. Venkman," he decided, light eyes glittering. "After all, it was you who provided me the most humiliation four years ago when I was with the EPA."  
  
"You!" Ray gaped, thunderstruck. "It was you when Gozer .... You're ... uh...."  
  
"It may be easier to remember what your character in the movie called me," the blond supplied bitingly. Ray flushed and Peck went on, "Now there's an interesting concept, Ali. Something for us to remember later."  
  
"Yeah," Ali grinned. "But not too much later."  
  
Peter raised his chin. His face was very pale but his green eyes flashed defiance. "You might as well get this over with, Pecker," he taunted, supporting himself against Ray's shoulder. "There's no way we're going to release Samhaine on a bunch of innocent people. He's going to stay in containment until he rots." He paused. "Or until you do."  
  
Peck's smile faded entirely. "I wonder how long it's going to take you to rot, Mr. Venkman, after I've granted you permanent residence in hell." He pulled out the small vial, unstopping it with grim finality. "If your friend is a very good boy," he purred, good humor restored, "I might let him kill you later."  
  
Peter shuddered involuntarily but made to rise, unprepared to die on his knees. A skeletal hand gripped him from behind, forcing a gasp as the bony fingers bit deep. "We'll meet again someday," Peter gritted between clenched teeth, "and when we do...."  
  
"I'll do it."  
  
That soft, toneless phrase was barely audible, but it was enough to bring everyone in the room to a sudden halt.  
  
"What did you say?" Peck asked, thrown momentarily off stride.  
  
Ray swallowed twice before he could repeat the words which had cost him so dearly. "I-I said I'll do it," he stammered, little louder than before. He refused to look at either Venkman or Peck; rather he favored the stone floor with a far away gaze. "I'll do anything you ask," he went on, weary and defeated. "Please don't hurt Peter."  
  
"No, Ray," Venkman began. His guard's fingers squeezed again, this time around his throat, choking him off.  
  
Peck rested his elbows on his knees, bending at the waist to peer into the younger man's face. "Do you know what you're saying, Raymond?" he asked, his use of Stantz' name almost a caress. "Are you agreeing to release Samhaine from your containment unit for me?"  
  
Ray nodded dispiritedly. "For Peter." He glanced timidly in Venkman's direction. "You're hurting, Peter," he pointed out without hope.  
  
"Oh, dear, we can't have that, can we?" Peck snapped his fingers, and the guard let the dark haired man drop; he lay where he fell, massaging his throat and gasping for breath for several minutes.  
  
Ray made to crawl to Peter's side, but Ali snagged him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back. "You're talking business, ain't you, kid?" the big negro asked, depositing him at Peck's feet. "Business before pleasure, you know."  
  
"How I love originality," Peter croaked, still panting to supplement his depleted oxygen supply.  
  
"Yes, business." Peck leaned back comfortably again. "What I need from you, Raymond, is your word promising to release Samhaine from containment. Do I have it?"  
  
Ray bowed his head and nodded, the very picture of defeat.  
  
"I can't hear you," Ali crooned smoothly.  
  
"Yes." Ray nodded again, never raising his eyes to either Peck or Venkman, who had rolled onto one elbow and was regarding him with a mixture of affection, pity, and horror.  
  
"Ray," Peter called softly. "You can't...."  
  
"Quiet." Ali gave the psychologist a kick, sending him flat again. "We're talking business here."  
  
Peck thoughtfully stroked his beard with one finger. "Not that I don't trust you, Dr. Stantz, but I'd feel so much more comfortable if we could seal the contract, so to speak. How about -- say -- a handshake?" Stantz nodded again and proffered his left hand, trembling badly all the while. His captor chuckled. "Left hand? My dear boy, a deal isn't legal unless one shakes on it with the right hand."  
  
"You scum," Peter growled, and if looks could kill Peck would have died instantly on emerald daggers.  
  
The blond ignored him. "I could kill him now," he murmured softly.  
  
"No!" Ray raised his eyes, focusing on his tormentor's scarlet robed chest. He shuddered, but raised his damaged right hand without hesitation.  
  
"Very good, Raymond," Peck approved, swallowing the hand with his own. Stantz screamed, a choked, breathless cry that imperfectly cloaked the sharp sizzling sound originating from their joined hands. "A little trick I learned from my grandmother," the blond commented as an aside.  
  
Had he expected an articulate reply, he was doomed to be disappointed. Stantz uttered a soft moan and fell, unconscious before he hit the ground. Peck released the limp hand, dropping it carelessly. "The contract is sealed," he intoned formally. "I must say that was far easier than I'd anticipated."  
  
"Not over yet," the big negro suggested hopefully.  
  
"No, of course not." Walter Peck rose easily, stepping over Ray with a swirl of his robes. He moved aside to allow Peter, too weak to stand, to crawl past. "With the bargain firm, we no longer need either Venkman or Spengler. And once Stantz unlocks the containment system...." He opened his arms wide. "A clean sweep, Ali."  
  
Quite oblivious to his captor's discussion of his own death, Peter continued his long crawl to Ray's side. No more than a dozen feet, the journey lasted an eternity, but make it he did at last. Propping himself up shakily, he turned the man over, having to blink several times to see past the tears which overspilled his lids. "Not for me, you young fool," he whispered, lifting the auburn head into his lap. "You shouldn't have done it for me. Not for me." Bowing his head over his friend's chest, Peter Venkman gave way to the emotions he could no longer control and wept.  
  
***  
  
Winston stood on tip-toe, carefully examining each block making up the cement wall for signs of looseness or cracks. The entrance to the underground chamber was here, of that he was certain, and Slimer had confirmed the fact by reporting on an intricate assembly of pulleys just beyond. He finished checking the last block -- nothing. No sign of the mechanism by which the room's creators entered and left, nor had there been any word from Slimer in the past ten minutes.  
  
"Looks like I lose the advantage of surprise," he decided with regret. He unslung his particle thrower and powered it up, choosing the rod's highest setting. The comforting hum of raw power rang out, bolstering his confidence immeasurably. "If I get out of this alive, I am definitely going to start carrying a piece again. Still, a man can fry as easily as he can bleed...." Face grim and mind hardened into old familiar patterns of combat, Winston took aim at the five-foot section of wall and touched the button.  
  
"Winnn-stonnn!" The low, reedy call stopped him not a second from firing. With a soft splat of dripping pseudo-substance, Slimer oozed through the wall at the exact point the Ghostbuster would have blasted into nonexistence. "Button!" the little entity chortled, flitting about the room. "Switch!"  
  
A deep breath only fueled a metabolism geared into high in preparation for whatever threat he must face on the other side of that stone barrier. "Go for it, m'man," he ordered, and the little creature vanished. Winston waited and was mildly surprised when a sliver of light appeared two feet to the left of his intended target area. "Would have given myself away for nothing," he breathed, relieved at the close call. He felt along the revealing light until he could work his fingers into the thin crack which bisected two sections of wall. He pulled until the crack became a door wide enough for him to slip through.  
  
"Recently oiled," he noted, acknowledging the door's silent operation. "And I doubt those light bulbs have been burning for long." He poked his head cautiously through the new aperture, carefully examining the area beyond for signs of life. To his left, a short corridor stretched, rising up three steps before disappearing around a bend. From that direction could be heard the low murmur of voices, muffled and indistinct. To his right, not a dozen feet away, stood a barred door through which poked a long, bony arm that Zeddemore recognized immediately. "Egon?" He reached the door in two bounds, badly startling the lightly clothed man within.  
  
"Who...?" The other Ghostbuster gave a violent start, losing his balance and landing with a thud square on his butt. His arm still dangled forlornly through the bars. "Win--!"  
  
"Sssh!" Zeddemore hurriedly shushed him. "I hear voices from down that way." He paused, examining the tall blond while a slow, wide grin spread itself across his features. "I can't leave you boys alone for a minute, can I? You know you look like you've been dragged down a New York alley?"  
  
Egon returned the grin, hope melting the arctic ice in his eyes. "I've had kind of a bad day," he returned drolly. "Thank heavens you're here, Winston."  
  
"Now there's an expression I don't hear from you very often, Dr. Agnostic." Winston examined the simple if eminently adequate locking mechanism with a jaundiced eye. "You have any idea where the key is? If I have to blast this sucker open, we'll have the bad guys on us in a minute."  
  
Egon considered. "Ali took the keys with him. I was trying to pick the lock...."  
  
"Were you?" Winston asked interestedly. "With what?"  
  
The old bent nail was sheepishly displayed. "I'm afraid I don't have much talent as a lockpick."  
  
"No problem, homebrew." Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, Winston accepted the nail and set to work, ignoring Spengler's skeptical look. Sixty seconds later, there was a loud click and the cell door swung open. "Wages of a misspent youth," he said with a wink. "Peter and Ray?"  
  
"That way." Spengler stepped out of the cell and removed one of the ghost traps from Winston's pack, hefting it dangerously in expert hands.  
  
"Disposition of the enemy?"  
  
"At least four." Satisfied with its operational status, the physicist positioned the trap in his right hand, the activator in his left, ready for a quick toss. "There was a large black man named Ali and two ... creatures."  
  
Winston cocked an eyebrow. "Creatures?"  
  
"I'm not sure precisely what they were," the blond admitted with a frown. "I think they were from Goizim's dimension. Suffice it to say they're not from our world and are very strong."  
  
"Check." The black man started off down the corridor, particle thrower humming in his hands. "And the fourth?"  
  
Egon followed a pace behind, knowing better than to get in the way of that deadly fire. "Unknown. Ali referred to him as the Master."  
  
"He'll be the master of something," Winston promised coldly.  
  
As silent as the ghosts they stalked, the two made their way down the abbreviated tunnel, stopping just inside the entrance to the main chamber. Horror froze their steps there at the drama which awaited them within.  
  
Most immediately noticeable was the tall, fair man which dominated the center of the room. The rich scarlet robes draped gracefully from his shoulders and the aura he projected was that of extreme confidence. At his side and no less striking, stood a black garbed giant flanked by two specimens of the Ghostbusters' stock in trade, their own robes gently lifting and falling on some unspeakable tide. On the ground and slightly to the fore were the two missing members of the team. Peter sat sprawled, holding Ray's limp form in his arms; his face was streaked with dirt and the tears which still flowed.  
  
Even from across the room, Winston and Egon could recognized the signs of shock on their youngest partner; Ray's face was ashen and his head lolled brokenly against Peter's bare chest. At first glance he might be taken as one more fatality victim; it was only after a second -- or even a third -- look that the shallow breathing could be seen.  
  
The four robed beings turned in unison at the soft gasp Egon was unable to contain at the sight. Soundlessly and without command, the two denizens of the nether-realms began to move forward, quite oblivious to Slimer's sticky attack.  
  
"Now, Winston!"" Egon shouted, heaving the ghost trap directly into the path of one phantom and pressing the activator. Uneducated as to the danger inherent in that small metal box, the creature took that one fatal last step, disappearing into the trap's maw with a whoosh.  
  
The second entity fared no better against Winston. Bony fingers curled into talons, it made no more than two steps before the black Ghostbuster opened fire. A twisting beam of ionized particles struck the inhuman being dead center, disrupting its molecular cohesion. The phantom vanished, reduced to a drifting cloud of charged particles already beginning to disperse.  
  
There was no time to celebrate this victory, however, for neither Peck nor Ali were prepared to surrender. Ali moved first, turning and swooping up the serrated commando knife in a single, flowing motion. There was experience in the man's fleshy hands and confidence in his face. "Not gonna shoot me, are you, college boy?" he taunted, seeking to unnerve the other before the first blow was struck. "Wouldn't be fair would it?" He slashed the knife back and forth in a practiced pattern.  
  
Winston hesitated only briefly, long enough to glance from Egon to Peter to Ray, and his face was grim and set. Ali lunged and Winston opened up, catching the larger man in a blinding coruscation of light. Ali danced, impaled on merciless fire; then collapsed with a single gurgling moan when Winston cut the stream and the sickening stench of charred flesh filled the vicinity. "I didn't go to college," Zeddemore solemnly informed the still smoking corpse. "I went to Viet Nam."  
  
For his part, Peck had been no less efficient than his colleague. With the speed of an old fashioned gunfighter, he reached into his robes and withdrew that same vial he'd used on Peter and Ray earlier. He stepped forward, setting up a throw which would have spattered Egon with its deadly contents. Unfortunately -- for him -- he failed to consider the crouched form of Peter Venkman at his feet, or the fact that Peter was still conscious.  
  
Upon becoming slowly aware of his friends' sudden appearance, Peter had prepared himself to act. He ever so carefully lay the unconscious Stantz down, giving the auburn head a gentle pat. The he pulled his legs under him, lithe muscles tensed and ready for any opportunity to act; by the time Peck had Egon targeted, Peter was already in motion, wrapping one arm around his enemy's ankles to bring the man crashing to the ground. The small vial flew free, shattering against the far wall and littering the floor with glass and reddish dust. Neither Venkman nor Peck took heed of the vial's fate; both now found themselves in a fight for survival, each one intent on claiming the other's very life.  
  
The two grappled several seconds, rolling over and over in the dirt. Bigger and in understandably better physical condition, Peck soon claimed the upper hand, wrestling the exhausted Peter beneath him. He drew back his fist; the punch, had it landed, would surely have broken the psychologist's jaw. Fate, however, decreed otherwise.  
  
Struggling furiously to avoid that telling blow, Peter bucked his hips, throwing his opponent momentarily off balance and allowing the psychologist to wiggle free of the restraint. Following up on his advantage, Peter lashed out, delivering that same, devastating right that had floored Winston only days before. Uttering a loud grunt, Walter Peck went down and stayed down.  
  
For Peter, blinded by hatred, the fight was far from over. He straddled the bleary man, one knee pinning each arm, leaving him free to wrap his fingers around Peck's neck. "You're going to die," he gritted, lips pulled back in a feral snarl. "Now." The bearded man beat uselessly at Peter's face and body, striking out with blows which grew progressively weaker as the small reserve of oxygen to his brain diminished with each passing second. Invincible in his rage, Peter held on until Peck's tongue protruded grotesquely between his bluing lips and still the psychologist continued to squeeze, his only goal being death.  
  
The entire skirmish had occupied the space of less than a minute, long enough for Egon to press two fingers against Ray's white throat and heave one long sigh of relief. "Alive," he muttered softly. "Barely." He next turned his attention to the two figures locked together on the floor, and it was with some alarm that he recognized Peck's rattling gurgle as a death knell. Egon flung his arms around the psychologist, hauling at him with all his might. "Let him go, Peter!"  
  
Venkman, however, was a man possessed, powered by his own particular spirit of revenge. With a strength which could not be denied, he brushed the older man aside as one might a gnat, returning instantly to the subject of homicide with single minded intensity. "Winston, help me!" Spengler shouted, throwing himself back into the fray. He grabbed Peter's fingers one by one, attempting to pry them from the folds of flesh into which they'd sunk.  
  
Off to the side, Winston stood, regarding the situation with an indecisive frown. "Man needs to die," he grumbled, eyes involuntarily turning to the blood that had pooled around Ray's crude bandage. He flicked his eyes again, dismissing Peck and looking instead at Peter Venkman. Twisted by a soul searing fury, the younger man was practically unrecognizable, and there was murder in the slitted green eyes. "Oh, blast." With another muttered curse, Zeddemore racked his thrower and approached the battling trio just as the psychologist threw Egon off for the third time. Winston stooped, fitting an arm around Peter's chest and lifting him bodily up and away from the now unconscious Peck. "Enough, Pete!"  
  
Though held securely above the ground and unable to gain leverage, Venkman continued to struggle, fury nearly giving him the strength to free himself from Winston's far more powerful grip. "I WANT HIM DEAD!" he screamed, kicking out.  
  
Egon picked himself off the floor and boldly took up a stance not six inches from the furious psychologist. He reached out, taking Peter's shoulders in both hands and giving them a shake. "Snap out of it, Peter," he ordered in a deep, firm voice. "It's over!"  
  
That penetrated the first layers of Peter's madness, but the first layers only. "He needs to die!" he shouted, recognizing Egon for the first time. "I want him dead!"  
  
"Yeah, but it ain't gonna be you that does him," Winston growled from behind.  
  
"Peter." Venkman faltered ever so briefly. Seeing this, Egon hurried on, "Peter, it's over."  
  
"Never over," Venkman sobbed, slumping in Winston's grip. "Never." After a moment, the black man set him on his feet though not removing his arm. By now it was far more useful as support than restraint. "Did you see what he did to Ray? Look at him!" Peter turned toward his fallen colleague, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. "Or ... what he did to me?"  
  
Egon gentled his hold on Peter's shoulders. "We have to get Ray to a hospital," he pointed out more calmly now that he had the other's attention. "Come on, help us."  
  
Venkman swiped his arm across his eyes, his nod a short jerk of the head. "But Peck and Ali...."  
  
"Already handled," Winston assured him. Peter started to step away but the black Ghostbuster took his upper arms in a tight grip, turning him forcibly so that the younger man was made to face him. "Peter, there's one other thing: from now until we're clear a'here, I want you to keep your eyes on Egon, Ray or me only. Hear me?"  
  
Peter shook his head, puzzled. "Why?"  
  
Eyes the color of midnight caught and held the green, compelling obedience. "I had to kill one of them."  
  
"Ali?" Peter's eyes left his friend's face, automatically seeking proof of that fact, but Winston's fingers tightened painfully on his arms, and the shake the black man gave him was not gentle.  
  
"Don't look, Peter," Zeddemore asked in a voice that was half command, half plea. "For both our sakes, don't look."  
  
Taut shoulders slumped as Venkman abandoned his attempt to seek Ali's dead body even though the desire for vengeance still shone in his eyes. "I promise," he vowed formally and, after another searching look, Winston released him. Peter sighed deeply and made his way to Ray's side, sparing Peck not even a glance. Adrenalin has a way of wearing off without warning and so it was with Peter; his energy evaporated in a rush and he slumped to his knees beside his friend's still form. He barely acknowledged Egon's supporting arm slide around his own shoulders. "Is he dead?" he asked dully, taking Ray's still, white hand in his own.  
  
Winston knelt facing him across Stantz' body and pressed two fingers along the carotid. He next lay a calloused palm on Ray's forehead and gently brushed back some of the auburn hair spilled across his brow. "I've got a pulse," he announced. "Skin's cold, though; shock. Bad."  
  
"An ambulance can...." Egon began. Peter cut him off with a curse.  
  
"He's not staying here," Venkman stated in a hard voice. "If he's going to die, it won't be with ... them." He jerked his head, managing to indicate their downed foes and keep his promise to Winston all at once. Face carved in stone, he fitted his arm under Ray's head, prepared to physically carry out his decision.  
  
"You crazy?" Winston stopped him with a light slap. "You can't even carry yourself, you idiot." He studied Peter's implacable expression, the set lines of his face softening into a smile. "I'll take him out, little brother. We'll get to a hospital a lot faster in old Ecto anyway."  
  
Peter gave way, satisfied, and allowed Spengler to help him up. He swayed and only Egon's grip kept him on his feet at all. "Easy does it," Egon admonished, pulling Peter's arm over his shoulders while slipping his own around his friend's waist. "If you pass out, Winston's going to have his hands full carrying you both."  
  
For his part, Winston rose into a half crouch, slipping one arm under Ray's shoulders, the other under his knees. Powerful muscles accepted the strain easily as he rose, bearing Ray with him as though a child. He paused to allow Peter to reposition the broken hand more securely across Ray's chest, then to settle the auburn head into the hollow of Winston's neck. Stantz lay quiet and unresponsive through it all. Treading carefully, Winston took the lead, guiding his friends from the dim cave, through the cellar, and finally emerging into the bright, clear air of freedom.  
  
When the police arrived twenty minutes later, the cave and all it contained had vanished without a trace.  
  
*** 


	12. Chapter 12

"This is Ghostbusters Central." Winston ushered the graying man in with a flourish, guiding him through the minefield of scattered tools and equipment surrounding Ecto-1 to the reception area. "And this," he added, indicating the pretty redhead behind the desk, "is Janine Melnitz, our secretary. Janine -- Greg Lambert, an old buddy of mine."  
  
Janine studied the portly figure, pausing only briefly to acknowledge the pinned-up left sleeve; her eyes swept upward, registering approval at the newcomer's open face and friendly smile. "Pleased ta meet'cha," she said, allowing her hand to be taken in a warm grip. "Any friend of Winston's...."  
  
"The feeling is certainly mutual," Lambert returned smoothly. He regarded the woman with a twinkle. "You were right, Winston," he said in a stage whisper. "She is a looker."  
  
Winston groaned aloud. Janine snorted, the jaded New Yorker who'd heard it all before. "I don't need any more insurance," she pronounced firmly.  
  
Lambert drew himself up. "My dear girl!"  
  
"I told you it wouldn't work," Winston laughed, jabbing the other man in the ribs. "Nothing like that, Janine. This is Doctor Greg Lambert of the VA Hospital."  
  
"Oh." Janine contemplated Doctor Lambert with dawning comprehension. "You brought him here to talk to the guys, didn't you?"  
  
Zeddemore hesitated, casually slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "Don't you think I should have?"  
  
"You better believe I do."  
  
Braced for censure, her heartfelt agreement threw the black Ghostbuster off stride for a moment. He recovered quickly and leaned across the desk, pinning the woman with a look. "Then you've noticed it, too," he began eagerly.  
  
"I've noticed changes in all of you," Janine replied tartly. "Nothing much gets past that I don't see, Winston..."  
  
"That's the truth," her companion muttered.  
  
"...including the fact that you've been disappearing every night since the guys got hurt." She crossed her legs, smiling at the way Lambert's eyes automatically traced her skin from ankle to exposed thigh. "You've been going to Dr. Lambert here?"  
  
Winston opened his hands wide, a note of embarrassment creeping into his voice. "After what happened, I needed someone to talk to. Greg ... well, Greg's known me since the war."  
  
"What you did wasn't easy," Janine patted his arm sympathetically. "And personally, I'm glad you had someplace to go to get your head together. You can be pretty smart when you put your mind to it."  
  
Winston visibly relaxed, basking in her rare praise. "Thanks to Greg. I just hope he can help the others too. They sure aren't getting better on their own."  
  
She mulled this over. "True. Egon hasn't played with his spore collection once since all this started -- or said more than two words to me, either. He and Ray putter around the lab all the time; even Peter doesn't come down here anymore."  
  
"Exactly why I called Greg in." Zeddemore clapped the other man on the back and nodded toward the stairs. "Next step is to get them to go along with this."  
  
Janine snorted again. "Good luck," she offered, going back to her typing. "'Cause frankly, I think you're gonna need it."  
  
***  
  
Dismissed on this cynical note, the two men made their way to the second floor living quarters where Winston showed his companion to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable, Greg. Coffee?"  
  
"Maybe later." Puffing from the climb, Lambert settled himself gingerly into the overstuffed cushions of the sofa. "I hope I can get back out of this chair," he groaned, sinking in. "I'm not as young as I used to be."  
  
"Who is?" Zeddemore drew a long, deep breath, expelling it in a soft whoosh. "Guess I'd better go invite the guys in. Sooner I get started...."  
  
Lambert raised a hand, stopping the other midturn. "Just a minute." He leaned forward, or rather, attempted to do so. The hungry sofa refused to let go. "Listen Winston, are you sure this is such a good idea bringing me in without telling the others first?" He sank back, giving the sofa a temporary victory. "Janine didn't seem to think I'd get much of a welcome once they found out why I was here."  
  
Winston dropped wearily down next to his old friend, the couch sinking even further under his added weight. "You may not -- especially from Peter. Most stubborn, independent cuss I've ever met."  
  
"Peter... Peter Venkman?" Lambert scratched his head. "Now why is that name so familiar?"  
  
Winston shrugged. "We're in the news every other week and you wonder why the name's familiar?"  
  
"Maybe." A pause. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"  
  
Winston leaned forward -- a feat Lambert watched with some degree of envy -- and rested his chin on his fist. "Frankly, I don't know what else to do. You've got to meet them to understand, but...." He sighed. "We got burned on this one, Greg -- all of us. Burned big time."  
  
Lambert laid a hand on his companion's muscular shoulder. "I know how it was for you, buddy. None of us thought we'd ever have to kill again after 'Nam."  
  
"I sure didn't." Zeddemore fixed his gaze on the blank screen of the television, studying the reflection he saw there. Distorted by the glass, it nevertheless showed a man of strength and character, as well as one who was desperately unhappy with his circumstances. "Blast," he swore softly. "I look like an old man, don't I?"  
  
"I should look that old," Lambert retorted good naturedly. "Despite the gray."  
  
"Gray?" Winston ran a hand through his short black curls, permitting himself to be distracted for the moment. "I ain't got no gray, man, and you're a fine one to talk anyway, you with that bald spot."  
  
Lambert looked startled. "Bald spot?" He rested a hand on his own pate and glowered at the smiling black. "You gonna pay for that one, Zeddemore," he growled, mimicking Winston's worst street accent.  
  
They both laughed, enjoying the brief respite. Winston quickly sobered, however, his practical mind returning to the problem at hand. "Dude was bad news, Greg," he said, his smile fading as though it had never existed. "Hurt my friends bad. You should have seen Ray laying there like one of the numbers, or Peter's face when...." He broke off, his eyes haunted with shades he'd thought buried long ago. "I did him, man -- that son of a--, Ali. I did him without a second thought." He gazed at his reflection again. "And I enjoyed it."  
  
"It was necessary," Lambert pointed out.  
  
"Enjoying it wasn't part of the package," Winston snapped. He stopped, his expression rueful. "Aw, c'mon, Greg, you've heard all this before. Every night last week in fact. You're here to see my friends, not me."  
  
Lambert released Winston's shoulder and wagged a finger under his nose. "I'm here so you can all learn to help each other, my friend. You're going to need their support as much as they need yours."  
  
"Don't know how much good I'm going to be," Winston admitted sadly. "First thing I did was run crying to you. I didn't even try to talk to Peter, and he's a psychologist, too."  
  
"Peter is too close to the problem," Lambert said. "And as competent as he may be, I doubt he has the experience to deal with trauma victims." He tapped Winston's knee. "You're the one with that kind of experience, Winnie, not those stay-at-home college boys."  
  
Zeddemore winced. "They were a little young for the war, Greg. I ... wouldn't have had them go, anyway."  
  
"Mother hen."  
  
"Who, me?" The black Ghostbuster turned, surprised. "Maybe I am a little. Not something I'd've called myself last week, but now...."  
  
"Normal reaction."  
  
Winston laughed shortly. "You think I'm bad, you should see Egon. I don't think he's been more than two feet from either Peter or Ray all week! He's got Peter ready to kill him. Even Ray is starting to kick -- and that's saying something when Ray's patience runs out!" He paused, the laughter fleeing his expression. "Or maybe not saying so much lately."  
  
"Don't worry so much, Winnie." Lambert smiled encouragingly. "We'll get your friends through this -- and you, too, provided you can get them to talk to me."  
  
Zeddemore rose. "Guess I'd better go talk to them."  
  
"Help me up first," Lambert ordered, extending a meaty hand. "Men of my ... 'stature' weren't created to sit this low to the ground anyway."  
  
Winston accepted the hand and pulled, hauling the heavier man out of the couch. "No problem. Oh, one thing you should know, Greg."  
  
"What's that?" Lambert asked, gaining his feet with palpable relief.  
  
"You ever call me 'Winnie' again, and I'll feed you to the next gooper we bust. And that, my friend, is a promise."  
  
"I'll remember that," Lambert acknowledged, shooing him off.  
  
***  
  
Winston headed directly for the main lab adjacent the bedroom where, as expected, he found Egon and Ray hard at work. They sat huddled over a conglomeration of tools and equipment unrecognizable to the non-physicist; wires strung like spaghetti decorated one metal stand, another was covered with circuit boards and spare parts heaped in no logical order whatsoever. Ray, his right hand swathed in bandage, brace and sling, sat at the wooden work bench holding one component, Egon bent over his shoulder also examining it closely. The general air was that of ordered chaos, a familiar atmosphere whenever the two scientists were involved. Pausing just inside the doorway, Winston took a moment to gather his courage and watch.  
  
"It won't work, Egon," Ray pronounced dispiritedly, dropping the unidentified module roughly to the table. "This design won't modulate the wave enough, either. I'm sorry."  
  
Egon rubbed his red eyes and adjusted his glasses before reconsulting a sheet of blue foolscap in his hand. "Why don't you try reconfiguring the multi-drive unit again," he suggested. "Maybe if...."  
  
"It won't work, Egon!" Stantz snapped. "I can't do it!" He blinked, surprised by his own outburst, then dropped his eyes back to the module. "I'm sorry. I'll try something else." He rifled through a pile of schematics, missing the sharp sorrow which crossed Spengler's ascetic features. Spengler lifted one hand, made to touch his friend's slumped shoulder, then dropped it to his side, the motion uncompleted. With a sigh, he turned to stare out the open window, lost in thought.  
  
Winston watched this miniature drama with a pain in his own heart. Since the first time he'd met these two, he'd recognized the rapport which existed between them both on a professional as well as an emotional level. There was little of that peculiar affinity in evidence today, nor had there been since the return of Walter Peck.  
  
A soft whisper of sound touched the periphery of Winston's senses. Turning toward it, he found himself staring into a pair of sharp green eyes which were regarding him steadily from the corner. This was a surprise to the black Ghostbuster, for Peter Venkman habitually worked in his own office on the ground floor. Winston had, in fact, deliberately avoided going downstairs first, anticipating the need for a little support before facing this stubbornly independent spirit. He hesitated, but there was understanding in those eyes and this, more than anything, gave Zeddemore the boldness to speak.  
  
"A-hem!" he began, with force cheer. "If you all have a minute, I'd like you to come out and meet an old friend of mine."  
  
"Does she have good legs?" Peter asked drolly, automatically smoothing his thick, dark locks. "Money? A car?" He struck a pose, hand on heart. "You have my blessings, my son. Go and sin in peace."  
  
"It's not that kind of a friend," Winston replied, grinning despite himself.  
  
"Oh. Sorry."  
  
Ray simply regarded Zeddemore with weary patience; Egon cleared his throat. "We're rather busy at the moment..."  
  
"Busy getting nowhere," Ray grumbled in a depressed voice, staring intently down at his denim-covered thigh.  
  
"...perhaps another time." Egon turned his back, dismissing the matter.  
  
Not so Peter. "No sense being rude, Spengs," he said in mild rebuke. "A new face around here might be a welcome sight. Hanging with you two is like hanging in a mausoleum." Giving Spengler no time to formulate an appropriately crushing response, he went on, "Who is this friend of yours, Winston?"  
  
Zeddemore leaned back against the doorjamb in a deceptively negligent pose. Here we go, he thought, bracing himself. "Old friend of mine, name of Greg Lambert. He...."  
  
"Lambert?" Peter's smooth forehead creased while he ran the name through his efficient mental filing system. "Lambert, Lambert...." His face cleared. "You mean Doctor Greg Lambert? The psychiatrist?"  
  
"You know him?" Winston asked, mildly chagrined. "He did say your name sounded familiar, but I thought he probably caught you on the tube somewhere."  
  
"One arm, right?" Peter rose, stretching his legs. "Knew him slightly post- grad. I remember because he was a lot older than the rest of us in the lab." He smiled in remembrance. "We used to call him 'Pops.' He hated that."  
  
"He had spent almost seven years overseas by then," Winston told him, his carefully prepared speech knocked into a hat. "I met him after I came home ... at the ... VA center."  
  
Peter's eyes narrowed. "PTSS?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you brought him home to meet us." It was not a question.  
  
"Yes." Zeddemore left the support of the door, strolling forward to stand in the geometric center of the room. He addressed the confused Stantz and Spengler, but he was acutely aware of Peter's gaze boring into his back.  
  
"After I got back from Viet Nam," Winston began, back very straight, "I needed a little help adjusting to being home. I couldn't hold a job, couldn't relax.... Every time a car backfired, I'd hit the dirt screaming."  
  
"It's called PTSS," Peter elaborated, coming to perch on one corner of Ray's table. "Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Common personality disorder afflicting people who have experienced some particularly disturbing or stressful situation." He paused, looking at Winston intently. "It affected a lot of war vets. You weren't alone."  
  
"Not just soldiers," Winston confirmed. "But anyone who's lived through something too rough for them to adjust to alone." He emphasized the last word ever so slightly, his expression carefully neutral.  
  
Light dawned. "And you brought him home to meet us," Egon quoted, frowning.  
  
"Yes." Zeddemore took a deep breath, then took the plunge. "I think we all need a little help to sort out what happened -- to try and put it behind us so we can get on with our lives again." He finished in a rush, "Greg has a program...."  
  
"No." That was Stantz, his soft voice unutterably weary, his eyes shadowed. "I don't want to see him. I don't want to talk about ... what happened. I just ... I just want to forget." He lifted his face pleadingly to Egon's, then dropped it again immediately. "Please, can't we just forget what happened? Please?"  
  
"I don't know -- can you?" Winston stepped closer, staring at the bowed auburn head with compassion, but his voice, when he spoke, was implacably hard. "You're looking at a second operation, then six to eight weeks of therapy after which you may -- I say may -- get back most of the mobility in your hand." He leaned closer. "You were imprisoned, drugged and tortured, but you're telling me you can just forget all that happened? Or that Peter can? Or Egon?" He raised his hand in a sudden gesture and Ray cringed away with a cry. "Are you putting it behind you, Ray?" he went on sadly, the compassion spilling over into his voice.  
  
"I think that's about enough." As hard as Winston's tones had been, they could compare not at all with the steel in Egon's deep bass. The tall physicist stepped protectively in front of Ray, impaling Winston on arctic ice. "You will drop this subject immediately. The matter is forgotten."  
  
Winston allowed his shoulders to sag, reading his defeat in those words. "Yeah, I'll forget it," he said regretfully, "but he won't. And neither will you."  
  
"Wait a minute." Peter, uncommonly silent through the preceding, spoke up at last. "Maybe we should ... hear him out," he suggested, swinging one sneakered foot back and forth in imperfect rhythm.  
  
"There's no reason to employ non-team members," Spengler protested, losing some if not all of his chill.  
  
"You're a psychologist, too, Peter," Ray spoke hesitantly, continuing to stare at his own leg. "We don't need anyone else."  
  
Peter smiled vaguely, settling back down onto his wood chair. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but in case you haven't noticed, I haven't been exactly helping myself, much less any of you."  
  
That brought the auburn head up, and Winston knew the youngest Ghostbuster was aware of what that admission must have cost the proud psychologist. Peter shrugged and again ran a hand through his thick brown hair, finger combing it into place. Ray immediately went back to studying his jeans.  
  
Spengler watched the exchange every bit as intently as Winston was; his blond brows knitted in a disapproving frown. "It's only been ten days, Peter," he pointed out, dropping a hand onto Stantz' tense shoulder. "I'm quite certain that, given a little time...."  
  
"How much time do you think you're going to need?" came a voice from the door. "Six months? A year?"  
  
Four heads swiveled in unison, following the heavy-set figure as he stepped fully into the room. "I couldn't help but overhear," Lambert explained without a hint of embarrassment at his intrusion. "Hello, Pete. I should have known it was you just from Winston's description: wild, outrageous, bizarre...."  
  
"Greg." Peter didn't offer to shake hands, but a mischievous light brightened his face. "Ever get that Peterbilt out of your waiting room?"  
  
Lambert chuckled. "Some of my clients finally tore it down. I understand it's being used in the children's ward as a jungle jim."  
  
"At least it didn't go to waste. Darned truck cost me fifty bucks. You still with the VA?" he asked, watching the older man closely.  
  
"Paying back a debt." Greg indicated his empty left sleeve. "May take awhile. So," he said, looking interestedly around the room, "Winston tells me you boys have been going through a bad spell of late." He stared pointedly at Ray's sling, then at the slowly fading bruises on his face. "Rough one, eh?"  
  
Stantz flushed. "This comes off soon," he blurted defensively.  
  
"And then everything will be just like it was before," Lambert translated, albeit sarcastically. "Do you agree, Dr. Venkman?"  
  
Peter cleared his throat. "There has been limited recovery time," he began uncomfortably, shrouding himself in the security of medical jargon, "and in the case of massive trauma..."  
  
"Like you've all suffered," Lambert interjected.  
  
"...it requires a finite amount of time to effect healing..."  
  
"...or not," Winston finished for him. "In this case, probably not."  
  
"Why do you say that, Winston?" Egon asked, scientist's mind intrigued despite any emotional blocks.  
  
Zeddemore hesitated, mentally flinching away from his own past yet aware of how important his answer could be. "I remember what it was like ... before." He broke off, running a hand across his face; it came away damp with sweat. "Look, it's been a long time since I had to deal with anything like this," he began again. "After 'Nam, I never thought I would have to again, but killing that Ali dude brought it all back with a bang." He shuddered.  
  
"Winston, I...." Ray rose, approaching the black Ghostbuster timidly as though expecting to be struck. "I'm sorry you had to.... I mean, I knew Ali was dead, and I knew...." He trailed off, raising his hand helplessly.  
  
"...that I was the one who killed him," Winston finished for him savagely. Ray retreated, but Winston reached out, snagging the other's good wrist in a solid grip. "Rifle or thrower, Ray, dead is dead. It's something that had to be done -- something I've learned to live with over the years." He glanced pointedly in Venkman's direction. "Something I'd rather not have anyone else have to go through if I can prevent it." He turned back to Stantz and gave his wrist a gentle shake. "It's all right to need help sometimes, Ray -- we all do. I would have never come home from 'Nam without it."  
  
"Especially if it's help from someone who's been there," Lambert said from behind. "And I was a prisoner of war for three years."  
  
"C'mon, guys, what can it hurt?" Winston switched tactics, going from rational to cajoling in a breath. He gave Ray's wrist another friendly shake, then released him. "Wouldn't it be worth it just to sleep a full night through?" he asked Peter, "Or to not go crazy every time your friends go to the john by themselves?"  
  
That last was to Egon, who blushed. "I'm not that bad," he protested, hunching his shoulders.  
  
"Like fun you aren't," Peter muttered under his breath. He turned to Lambert and there was the first glimmerings of acceptance in his eyes. "What precisely are you proposing, Pops? Group?"  
  
Lambert nodded. "I've had a great deal of success with group sessions. You'll meet men who've gone through the same things you have and come out the other side. Sometimes just talking things out with someone who understands can be enough."  
  
"But I don't want to talk about it." Ray sank back into his chair, his face visibly paling. "I ... don't even think I could if I wanted to."  
  
Egon draped an arm around Ray's slumped shoulders and squeezed comfortingly. "Maybe they're right," he said uncertainly.  
  
"I think so; none of us can go on like we've been." No answer. Still perched on the desk, Peter reached across to give Stantz a light tap on the head. "Oh, Raaa-aaay. You in there?" Ray looked up a shy smile on his lips, which Peter warmly returned. "Do you realize that's the first time you've looked me in the face all week?"  
  
Stantz looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean...."  
  
"You also apologize every third sentence," Peter added bluntly.  
  
"And you haven't slept in days," Egon told the psychologist, kindly drawing attention away from the discomfited Stantz.  
  
"Which proves my point," Peter agreed triumphantly. "Not that group is my all time favorite thing," he added, scowling at Lambert, "but I guess it's better than nothing."  
  
"High praise from you, Dr. Venkman," Lambert returned sweetly. "And they say doctors make the worst patients."  
  
"We do," Peter smiled. "But we're not stupid."  
  
"No, you're not." Winston slapped the psychologist on his gently swinging leg and turned to his two remaining partners. "Ray? Egon?"  
  
Spengler waited, watching Stantz who hesitated then met Winston's eyes with a deliberate effort. "I'm not sure I can talk...."  
  
"Then just come," Lambert invited, "and listen."  
  
After another moment, Ray nodded and that was when Winston started to breathe again for he knew Egon was won as well. "I'm scheduled to go in tonight at eight," he said briskly, as though a crisis had not just passed. "We can all go together." He waited for four nods of agreement before turning to the patiently waiting Lambert. "Come on, Greg, I'll make that coffee I promised." The two started out, then paused at Peter's call. "Yo, Pete?"  
  
"I just want you to know," the psychologist told him very solemnly, "that I don't do group hugs."  
  
"We'll work on that one," Winston winked, heading for the door.  
  
***  
  
finish 


End file.
